The Secrets of a Mage
by Nightsailer
Summary: When Caramon is caught in the clutches of Fistandantilus, Raistlin is dragged from the grave to come to his aid. Simple enough. But when the Dark Queen shows her dread hand, Raistlin must complete another duty to the gods...and to Crysania.
1. Chapter 1

I'm back at last! Sweet summer vacation. A brief reminder - the actual plot doesn't start this chapter; I'm just setting the stage. Some serious $h+ happens later on, you can be sure of that. Warning: This story takes romance and broken hearts to the extreme! I'm hoping to someday get it published with Wizards of the Coast, so if you have ANY suggestions at all, please don't hesitate to write. If you like romance and angst, well…then this is the story for you. R&R!

Chapter One: A Mysterious Find

Crysania's Yearning

A long time coming, a long time coming

It crept up on me in the still of night

To love, sweet love, I turned a blind eye

Always kept well out of sight

All that time I was blind

With no intention to see

But in time I would find

What was lost to me

A long time coming, a long time coming

A hard road I walked through a treacherous heart

Your eyes mirrored mine in the oddest of ways

Your wicked, wild words picked my soul apart

A long time coming, a long time coming

Was the sight that only in darkness I gained

I saw you clearly only after you were gone

Only after your sun, golden sun, did wane.

A shadowy figure wandered the darkened halls of the House of Paladine. The temple had been moved to a wealthy merchant's house beside the remains of the former, and that's where this young girl walked. Sightless eyes pierced the darkness as arrows pierce a satin cloak, though the void they searched was much deeper than the shifting shadows of dawn.

Long slender fingers traced the wall that led her on her way. White, silky robes fluttered about the feet of the young woman as she took hesitant but firm steps toward her unknown destination. Finally, her hand brushed the sill of an enormous window, and she stopped. The warm morning air that had greeted her from every other window she passed was not present here. The breeze that brushed past her smooth, cream face was cold and chilled, as if a white dragon had let out a slow, freezing sigh.

Instinctively she drew her robes closer around her, leaning on the cool windowsill to keep herself facing the right direction. She knew in her heart that the building she faced would be forever burned into her mind, and she could picture it vividly, even as her sightless eyes stared blankly into nothing.

"I know you are at rest," she said softly. "I know this well…I sensed your soul settling into eternal sleep, guarded by your brother." She reached a hand out toward the Tower, a pained expression stealing over her face. "But I still long for you…I still long to tell you those words I could not speak for so long… I want to hold you…just once more…" A tear slipped down her cheek, but she did not brush it away. Instead of crushing her emotions as she had done so often in the past, the new Head of the Church put her head in her hands and began to cry.

So lost she was in her torment that she didn't hear the other pair of soft footsteps as they neared her. She was only aware of the other presence when a slender hand was placed on her shoulder.

"Lady Crysania, is there anything I can do for you?" said a quiet, musical voice.

Crysania started, immediately brushing her tears away out of habit. Turning to face the new cleric, she forced a smile. "No, Senan, there is nothing you can do. I am simply grieving over events long past, and it must be done, lest it forever weight upon my heart." Which it will anyway, she thought to herself, but chose to keep this hidden.

Senan nodded, her pretty red hair tumbling haphazardly over her shoulders. "Forgive me. I shall return to my quarters at once, Lady."

Crysania shook her head. "No, it's quite alright. Please, stay with me. It is good to feel the presence of another."

Senan gave her mentor a confused look, but went to stand beside her, her eyes traveling to the tower in the distance. She tried to conceal an involuntary shudder, but it came anyway. It was an unfounded uneasiness, she knew – it was one of the most common teachings of the old Head of Church, Elistan, that there must remain a balance between the forces of Good, Evil, and Neutrality. But even this knowledge couldn't keep the distaste from her heart.

Feeling her young attendant shiver, Crysania laid a hand upon the girl's arm. "I know what you are thinking, Senan," she said gently. "You are eyeing that Tower over there with contempt, distrust, and even hatred, if I might venture that far. You are battling with yourself, thinking that evil is an unnecessary tarnish upon our humble world. Please don't think like that; I could not bear to watch another person make the same mistake I made."

"But I don't understand, Lady!" Senan burst out. "Why must there be such evil in the world? I can't figure it out! If we're all supposed to live together in harmony, with the right balance of each moon in each of our hearts, how can Paladine tolerate that which does _not_ live in harmony? Evil destroys! Evil murders! What good can come of such deeds?"

"We do not question the ways of the gods," Crysania said firmly. "I learned this the hard way. I hope you will not follow in my footsteps and discover this the horrible way I did."

"But--" Before she could protest, a strange sight caught her eye. Wheeling in the distance, seemingly driven by a drunken gully dwarf, was the citadel taken from the forces of darkness during the War of the Lance. It reeled in unsteady loops among the clouds, pausing here and there to ponder direction, then set off in a series of dives and swoops that would have made any normal being sick. Senan's brow furrowed in grim amusement as she watched the rocky bottom of the floating fortress barely miss a watchtower to the north.

"What is it, my Daughter?" Crysania asked, turning her milky eyes to what she thought was the window.

"It seems that the skies have been taken by a drunken flying castle, Lady," Senan chortled, remembering the gleaming face of the kender when it was proclaimed the citadel would be his.

The Head of Church shook her head in confusion. "I thought he had given it to that gully dwarf…Rounce, I think his name was?"

Watching the citadel do a sudden flip and continue east tipped on its side, Senan replied, "Do kender ever really give anything away to never have it magically follow them home again?"

"I suppose not," Crysania laughed. She was calling to mind an image of the kender as she remembered him from their earlier travels. She could clearly picture the look of utter amusement the sharp little features would be wearing as he tumbled easily through the heavens. "May Paladine go with you wherever you go, my dear friend…" she murmured, suppressing a giggle with the sleeve of her robe.

"And hopefully with the rest of Krynn as well," Senan added, wincing as the citadel turned one more time to smash the watchtower into the ground.

Crysania only smiled. Their former conversation had been forgotten in the excitement of seeing (or hearing about and picturing, in her case) the drunken citadel traipsing wildly through the skies. However, the Head of Church knew that this would not be the last time the topic was brought up. No, she thought to herself, this will surely not be the last time I speak with Senan over this matter. I see in her much of myself, and I know she will have to learn the hard way no matter what I say. Paladine, give me strength! She sighed. "Raistlin…" she murmured softly, "watch over me…"

"What was that?" Senan asked without pulling her gaze away from the citadel.

"Oh, nothing."

"Turn it around! Turn it around!"

"Me try, dolt, me try! No be so loud!"

"Ouch, that was my head! Watch where you're puttin' them gunboots!"

"Me no have gun!"

Tas gasped in exasperation. "I didn't mean that you had a gun, Rounce, I just wanted—Look out! The watch—oh, nevermind, seems we've already hit it…"

Once again, Tasslehoff Burrfoot stood upon the filthy shoulders of the gully dwarf, Rounce. The two had gotten somewhat better at steering the citadel together, but at moments like these, an ogre would have had better luck getting to the moon than the two had of reaching their destination. Rounce still had yet to learn the meaning of the non-cardinal directions such as southeast, northwest, and so on, and thus Tas had resigned to let their destination be reached with a series of lurching catacorners that took twice as long as the original route. Tacked to the wall ahead of them was the map Tanis had given him not two days ago. Merilon, their intended destination, had been circled in red with bold Common words that read "TO MERILON" in large print. Tas would consult the map, then the compass, then report to Rounce which way to go, only to find that the gully dwarf had steered them completely off course and was heading off over New Sea. After a few minutes (and several slaps to the dwarf's head), the pair would be on track again, trying to regain distance lost.

Usually Tas would have enjoyed the adventure of swinging through the clouds with abandon, but he needed to be back before he was missed by Caramon and Tika. He had promised the big warrior that his adventuring days were over, and he fully intended to keep that promise…after he had found and explored the city of Merilon.

"Okay," Tas announced after carefully removing the gully dwarf from the control platform so he could examine the map. "Seems we're heading in the right direction. Merilon should be no more than an hour's flight from here." Turning to his friend, Tas puffed his chest with pride. "I knew I could get us there quickly!" He shot a winning smile at Rounce.

The gully dwarf, however, was not impressed. "You take two days to get us hundred feet," he scoffed. "Me see smarter rocks than dumb kender!"

"But that wasn't my fault," Tas pointed out cheerfully. "You steered us off course and over New Sea--"

"Me want to see fish!"

Tas slapped his forehead, his patience finally running thin. "Yes, and you saw the fish the first time! What made you think that the fish would still be there after we came back, oh I don't know, four hours later?"

Rounce gave him a hurt look. "Fish like Rounce. Fish stay."

"Yeah yeah, whatever you say," the kender returned, not wanting to have to suffer through another argument that would undoubtedly lead in the same circles he had wandered with the gully dwarf not ten minutes earlier. Hopping back up onto the platform, he took his position. "Ready to go?"

"Me ready!" Rounce clambered up onto the kender's shoulders and solemnly placed his hands on the obsidian orbs. "Which way we go?"

"East," Tas answered, willing with all his might that would be the way the citadel went.

Surprisingly enough, the flying fortress took off at a considerably fast pace due east. The kender could not have been more astonished if Rounce had just pulled the Staff of Magius out of his nose. He glanced up at the gully dwarf appreciatively, forming plans for the wonderful things he would do while in Merilon. Among the first would be to visit the town's best inn and search for any items of interest. Thinking of the wonders he would be sure to find, Tas mentally speeded the citadel on its way.

Three hours later, the citadel half landed, half crashed onto the plains just outside of what they hoped was Merilon. As the flying fortress skidded to a screeching halt, Tas frantically tried to keep himself from falling into a wall.

"Watch out, Rounce!" he shouted, pulling the gully dwarf away from a spear that had skittered off the wall and was lolling about on the floor. The weapon rolled the other way and slipped out the door, and the two could hear it clanging down the hall as the citadel teetered on its side.

Eventually, the giant structure righted itself. It shuddered to a stop, resting against a large hill. Tas had let go of his friend in the confusion, and now found him huddled in a ball next to the steering platform.

"You ok?" the kender asked, poking his companion lightly in the side.

"Me dead yet?" Rounce looked around suspiciously. Seeing Tas, he let out a horrible moan. "Me in the Abyss…" he said sadly.

"No you're not," Tas said idly, completely missing the hidden insult. He was too busy gathering up his numerous scattered pouches that had been thrown loose in the tumble from the skies. "We're in Merilon, I think. I hope. Come on, let's go! There's so much exploring to do and so little time!" The kender flounced out of the room, heading for the exit.

Rubbing a rising bump on the back of his head, Rounce got unsteadily to his feet and stumped after Tas. "Kender going to be death of Rounce," he muttered under his breath. "Me should have stayed with friends. But no, me have to follow stupid kender who steal citadel!" He shook his head in disgust. "Maybe me stupid one…"

The gully dwarf caught up with his companion just as the kender was about to skip merrily out into the street. Running as fast as he could, Rounce fell into step with the scampering little adventurer.

"Where we go now?" he asked, eyeing the village that was lighting its candles as dusk stole over the land.

"There, of course!" Tas pointed. "I think I may even see an inn! I do hope they make better food than Caramon. He does his best, of course, but it still leaves much to be desired. Tika's a good cook, but she's so busy cooking for everyone at the Inn of the Last Home that I couldn't trouble her to make me a decent meal…" Tas chattered along happily, not noticing when his companion tripped and fell in a pothole.

"Ahh! Ground grab me!" Rounce tried frantically to get out of the hole and only succeeded in burying himself under a heap of road gravel.

"Must you?" Tas turned around, his hands on his small hips. "I was just going to tell you about the time Raistlin almost killed me, and you have the audacity--" –his chest swelled with pride at the new word, acquired from Otik—"to interrupt! I must say, gully dwarves can be so rude…" Reaching out, he pulled the gully dwarf from the pothole, nearly sending himself and the one he was helping tumbling backwards into the dirt. The only thing that saved them was a pair of muscular legs that had somehow appeared behind them.

"Who's that?" Tas peered up at the owner of the sturdy legs to see a guard, dressed in the fine armor of a wealthy man, staring down at him. Hastily getting to his feet and knocking the poor gully dwarf once more onto his rump, Tas extended a small hand in polite greeting. "I'm Tasslehoff Burrfoot, sir guard. Sorry to have stumbled into you. You see, my friend fell in that pothole over there, and--"

His explanation was cut short when the guard grabbed his topknot and yanked his purse from the kender's hands. "We tolerate kenders," he said menacingly, "but only to an extent." Turning to Rounce, assuming that this was a normal hill dwarf, he said, "Make sure that you keep your friend out of trouble. I'm leaving him in your care." The guard thrust the kender into Rounce's surprised grasp. When the gully dwarf didn't say anything, the guard leaned closer, peering into the grubby little face. "Did you hear me?"

"Say something, you doorknob!" Tas hissed into Rounce's ear, happy to be reprimanding someone else for a change.

"Uhmm…me…me do," Rounce said hesitantly, trying to stand up as straight as possible.

At a suspicious glance from the guard, Tas jumped in to the rescue. "My friend here doesn't speak must Common," he explained quickly. "He's lived in Thorbardin for most of his life, and…uh…he speaks mostly dwarven. Haha, you don't know how hard it is to break the guy from the habit of using the wrong pronouns! Isn't that right, Rounce?" The kender said this last in dwarven.

The gully dwarf muttered something unintelligible, which, to Tas's relief, was taken for dwarven by the non-speaking guard. The man nodded, satisfied.

"I see," he said, more friendly than he had originally done. "Well then, enjoy your stay, uh…Rounce. Make sure you keep a close eye on your kender friend."

Rounce nodded importantly and marched past the guard. Tas inserted his topknot into the dwarf's hand for added effect. Not realizing, the dwarf led Tas away by the hair.

"Bye, sir guard!" Tas waved jovially to the man, who pretended not to notice. When they were out of sight, Tas stood up straight, his hair falling easily from his friend's light grasp. "Now then. We're going to have to find the inn around here. I know I saw it when we were down the road…ah! There it is." Tas pointed down the road and set off at an easy pace, slow enough for Rounce's stumbling footsteps to keep up doing merely double time.

The inn was called "The Brethren Hall", as was brightly painted on a sign that swung jauntily from a wooden post. The walls were firm and freshly painted, and inviting sounds of laughter and song drifted from the wide open windows.

The Brethren Hall lived up to his name and then some. Known for miles as a meeting place for friends and its free first glass of ale, people passing through always made the inn a must-see for their journeys. The rooms were comfortable and homely, each with a breakfast service included in the price of the room. Humans, dwarves, and elves alike frequented the place equally after the War of the Lance, and most of the customers were fast friends.

This was the atmosphere that Tas and Rounce entered as the crossed the threshold. The innkeeper immediately hurried over, only giving the kender a brief suspicious glance as he tucked his purse deeper into his pocket.

"Welcome, welcome, my fine friends. I trust that your travels haven't left you too weary for our complimentary glass of ale! Come in, come in. Terra!" he called to a brunette barmaid, who flounced over to her elder in a flurry of lace and velvet. "Take these fine people to a place by the fire and bring them their ale. We'll make their stay one to remember!"

Tas was so touched by this hearty welcome that he actually reminded _himself_ that he was not to steal anything. Politely folding his hands behind his back, the kender followed Terra to the table nearest the fire and sat down in a cushioned chair. Even Rounce attempted to wipe some of the grime off his face by burying it in a napkin.

"I'll be right back," Terra told them with a smile, and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Take your time!" Tas called after her. He had completely, if conveniently, forgotten his hurry to get home. Leaning back, he put his hands behind his head, remembering just in time not to put his boots up on the gleaming table. "So, Rounce! Aren't you glad I said we should come here? Such a warm and trusting atmosphere! I was so lost in it that I completely forgot to check for interesting items. Strange, huh? I never pass up the chance to examine something new and exciting! And I didn't even stop to consider that some poor person might have dropped something that needed returning." He sighed, shaking his head in wonder. "I guess excessive politeness and a friendly atmosphere really gets to a person. What do you think?"

"Who they?" Apparently, the gully dwarf hadn't heard a word his companion had said. Instead he was looking off into the corner of the room, the only part of the inn that wasn't touched by the firelight.

Tas peered closer, trying to see into the shadows. When his eyes finally pierced the darkness, the kender could make out the small but robust figures of mountain dwarves. He whistled quietly to himself. Thorbardin dwarves were rarely seen outside their mountain home, especially in a place like Merilon, which was miles upon miles away from the comfort of their forges.

Yet here they were, sitting in a dark corner muttering among themselves. As Tas looked closer still, he could have sworn that he recognized some of them from not too long ago. Well, not too long ago to him, anyway. To any normal person lacking in the adventuring area, it would have been well over a hundred years in the past, back in the times of the Dwarven Wars. And everyone knows that even dwarves can't live that long.

Furrowing his brow, Tas said to himself, "They look like those Dewar dwarves I saw way back when I was trapped in that Thorbardin jail with Gnimsh. I could almost swear that they were the same ones. But that's not possible! That all happened practically three centuries ago!" This deeply troubled him. The Dewar were not a nice race, and the fact that there were some that seemed familiar was a scary thought. What if Dewar dwarves had extremely long lifespans like the elves? Tas shuddered involuntarily at the thought.

"What wrong?" Rounce asked, hoping that if something in fact WAS wrong, the kender would not be able to finish the ale the barmaid had just set before him. The gully dwarf eyed the mug hungrily.

Tas shook his head, not wanting to bring any unnecessary concern to his companion without solid evidence. "Nothing's wrong. Just caught a chill, that's all." Turning back to the dwarves, he continued to watch thim with a wary eye.

"Oh," Rounce grunted, disappointed. He gazed forlornly into his own already empty tankard, then clapped it down on the table with a heartfelt sigh.

The Dewar continued to talk amongst themselves. Apparently, there was an argument over some artifact that had been produced from the pocket of the dwarf on the far left. Tas strained to see what it was, but one of the dwarves' big heads blocked his view.

"C'mon, move!" Tas urged under his breath, craning his neck to try once more to see around the robust figure. But the rotund dwarf did no such thing. Instead, he suddenly snaked his hand forward and swiped the object off the table, stashing it hastily in a vest pocket. The other Dewar gave an infuriated shout, and all lunged toward their treacherous companion with clutching hands.

The Dewar dwarf called something in Dwarven, a word that Tas had either not heard right or could not understand, and charged for the door. His companions lurched after him, their faces masks of fury and hatred. Their clumping footsteps turned the heads of every customer in the Inn.

"That item must be really interesting!" Tas exclaimed, watching the dwarf get wrestled to the ground not ten feet away. "And look what they're doing! In that fight, they'll probably squash it flat! How could they be so careless?" The kender slid from his seat and darted across the floor. In the confusion, the object had skittered from the dwarf's hand and landed unnoticed under an empty table. With the fluidity and ease that is natural only to a kender, Tas snatched it up and tucked it down the front of his shirt. "I'll just hold onto it until they're done," he told himself. "Wouldn't want it to get broken!" He sauntered back over to his companion and took the gully dwarf by the arm. "Come on, Rounce, let's go. We'd probably better be getting back to Solace – the sun's already going down. Caramon's gonna – Oh no, Rounce, Caramon! Hurry, we have to get going!"

"Me not go till me have 'nother ale," Rounce stated stubbornly, digging his heels into the ground.

"Rounce!" Tas cried, exasperated. Reaching out, he plucked a mug of ale from a temporarily vacated table and held it out to Rounce. "Here you go, but be quick about it!"

The gully dwarf didn't have to be told twice. Upending the tankard, he downed the fiery liquid in two seconds flat – well, downed the small portion that actually went into his mouth. The rest spilled down his shirt front and pooled on the floor.

"Alright, you're done, let's go!" Once more Tas caught up his friend's arm and half led, half dragged him from the inn. The dwarves, in the heat of their miniature battle, did not notice. They simply brawled on.

Fifteen minutes later, Tas and Rounce had made it back to the citadel. They were out of breath and sweating, but Tas wore a big smile.

"That was so much fun!" the kender exclaimed. "Merilon is a wonderful city. We'll have to come here again sometime. Strictly on business, though. We can't have Caramon having an adventuring fit."

"Me no want come back," Rounce panted. "This bad place. Give Rounce bad feeling."

"Oh, don't be silly. It was most enchanting. But nevermind, let's get off the ground. I have a feeling that we'll be flying for a while."

Surprisingly, the citadel flew strangely straight. Rounce gave no complaint, but sat in sullen silence, going whichever way Tas directed without fail. The kender shook his head in wonder, but did not question this unusual phenomenon. Fifteen minutes later, Tas and Rounce had made it back to the citadel. They were out of breath and sweating, but Tas wore a big smile.

"That was so much fun!" the kender exclaimed. "Merilon is a wonderful city. We'll have to come here again sometime. Strictly on business, though. We can't have Caramon having an adventuring fit."

"Me no want come back," Rounce panted. "This bad place. Give Rounce bad feeling."

"Oh, don't be silly. It was most enchanting. But nevermind, let's get off the ground. I have a feeling that we'll be flying for a while."

Surprisingly, the citadel flew strangely straight. Rounce gave no complaint, but sat in sullen silence, going whichever way Tas directed without fail. The kender shook his head in wonder, but did not question this unusual phenomenon. He had long ago learned not to ask questions when something went inexplicably right, and he was not about to jinx the good fortune with a meaningless query. Within the hour, they had landed gently on the outskirts of Solace.

Tas let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Well, we're here," he said cheerfully, if tiredly. "Thanks for going with me, Rounce. It was quite an experience – one I hope we'll be able to repeat sometime in the near future," he added with a meaningful look at the gully dwarf.

"Bye bye. Me go sleep now." Rounce abruptly turned on his heel, and, with one last baleful glance shot over his shoulder at Tas, curled up in the corner under a pile of garbage.

"G'night!" Tas called. Then he raced out the door of the citadel and charged for the Inn of the Last Home, all the while wondering why there was such a strange feeling in the depths of his soul – feelings that seemed to radiate from a certain pocket in the front of his shirt.


	2. Chap1,partII Chap2,partI Dark Omens

"Where is that dratted kender!" Tika growled, slamming a freshly washed skillet onto a pile of onion skins, dirtying it once more. "He promised not to go gallivanting the moment you two returned. And what does he do? He takes off the first chance he gets!"

"Now now, Tika," Caramon chortled, carefully brushing the onion skins off the back of the skillet. "Tas will be back. Can you honestly expect a kender to stop adventuring because of a silly promise?"

"I thought _that_ kender was different," she grumbled, snatching the skillet from her husband's clumsy hands and dunking it back into the soapy dishwater. "The moment he sets that wanderlusting little foot over that threshold, I swear--"

"Tika! Caramon! I'm home!" Tasslehoff skipped into the room, his pouches bouncing around him like children around a tetherpole. "You'll never guess what I--"

"Oh, I bet I can," Tika interrupted, drying her hands on the front of her apron. Crossing the floor in a few swift steps, she caught up the little kender by his arm and knelt to press her face into his. "I'll bet that you've been out adventuring again, haven't you?"

"Uh…" Tas's eyes darted hopefully to Caramon, who only snickered and waved his friend's silent plea away.

"That does it!" Tika stood up and began to drag Tas down the hall.

"Tika, what are you doing?" Tas cried, alarmed. He tried digging his heels into the ground as Rounce had done, but to no avail. Tika was stronger than she looked.

"What I should have done a long time ago – I'm going to tie you to a chair so tight that your ears will fall off!" The red-headed fiend rounded another corner and went into the broom closet, grappling with Tas with one hand, the other frantically searching out the chair that had been stashed in the closet for repair.

"Tika, while I think that having my ears fall off would be a most amusing experience, I rather like them because they keep my hair on. So if you'll excuse me, I think I'll be retiring to my room…" Tas tried the old Twist and Duck, which was supposed to free his arm from a friendly captor. But Tika held firm, accustomed to all the kender tricks of the trade.

"Nope, you're not going anywhere," she said grimly, her read hair flashing in the candlelight coming from the hall. She pushed Tas into the chair and produced a length of rope, then started wrapping it expertly around the startled kender.

"Tika, love, that's really not necessary." Caramon came up behind his wife and caught her gently but firmly by the arm. With his other hand, he pulled the rope off the kender and tossed it to the side. "If we know we can do nothing to stop it, why prolong the inevitable?" he added teasingly.

"Whew! Thanks, Caramon." Tas brushed himself off and clambered to his feet. "Tika," he said sternly, "I really think you must reconsider the way you scold people. Being tied to a chair is great fun, but threatening to make one's ears fall off is a serious threat, as a body needs them to hear."

"I just wish they _did_," Tika muttered, but she relinquished her hold on the kender and nestled into her husband's embrace.

"So where DID you go, Tas?" Caramon settled his arms around Tika's lithe waist and mentally strapped them both in for what was certainly going to be a wild ride.

"Oh, you should have seen it, Caramon! Rounce and I took the flying citadel to this town I found on Tanis's map called Merilon. It was breathtaking! Despite the fact that we ran into some Dewar dwarves that looked a lot like the ones we met when we went back in time-" Tas gasped and clapped his hand over his mouth. He hadn't meant to tell Caramon about the dwarves for fear it might upset him.

Apparently, his intuition had been right.

"You what?" Caramon demanded, releasing his hold on Tika and squatting to bring himself eye-to-eye with the kender. "The Dewar? You say you saw the Dewar that betrayed us way back then?"

"Uhr…no…I mean, yes, but I must be mistaken…" Tas tried ineffectively to edge around his big friend, but found his way blocked by Caramon's tremendous bulk. "Seriously, it must have been the lighting. After all, they _were _sitting back in the shadows until…"

"Until what?" Caramon urged.

"Until they started fighting over…who was going to pay the bill," Tas amended, feeling the object burn against his breast. Feigning a cough, he placed his hand protectively over his chest.

"Then you _did_ see them clearly. Tas, this is really important. Dwarves don't live any longer than a hundred and fifty years to my knowledge, but then again, I've never really heard about Dewar dwarves in this time, aside from rumors of a city of them under the Barren Range. If they really are the ones we discovered back in time…" Caramon trailed off, his brow furrowed in thought.

"What difference would it make?" Tika asked, leaning against the door to the closet. "It's not like they would remember you, and if they haven't come after you by now, they most likely have forgotten you altogether. And, let's face it – there's not much dwarves can do in Solace."

"Tika's right," Tas said quickly. "Even if they _were_ – which I seriously doubt – the Dewar we met back in the Dwarven Wars, it's not like they would want anything with us now. Your wife is very intelligent, and I agree with her when she says they probably don't even remember."

"But trouble always seems to follow you around, my dear friend," Caramon sighed, rubbing his temple. "And, just knowing you the way I do, you probably picked up something of theirs along the way. Accidentally, of course," he added hastily at Tas's indignant snort, "with full intention of returning it." He cast a look at the kender's hand, which was still clenched tightly over the object. "Is something wrong with your chest?"

"No," Tas said truthfully, taking his hand away. "Just become a silly habit, that's all. I'm getting up there in years, y'know."

Tas was no more getting up in years than Tika was growing a beard, and Caramon knew it, but he decided to let that little notion slide. With a wondering shake of his head, he got up, letting Tas slither past him and dart down out the door to the Inn, heading for the vallenwood house perched in the tree above it.

"I don't believe a word he said," Tika announced the minute the kender's was out of sight. "He wouldn't have brought up the Dew…Dewee…whatever they're called unless he had a good reason. Tas is hiding something from us, Caramon. You don't suppose he actually DID take something from those dwarves, do you…?"

"No," Caramon assured her quickly. "Dewar were a strange bunch. They rarely carried possessions other than a weapon, and I doubt Tas would have any interest in those."

"You never know. He might have found one that was wearing gold-threaded underwear and gone after those," Tika said teasingly, smacking her husband fondly on the buttocks. "I guess you're right, though. Done's done, and there's no use dwelling on it until the draconian comes bursting through the door."

"Or the fresco dwarf," Caramon shot back, winking.

Tika laughed a little too loudly, then turned and went back to washing the dishes.

Tas ran into his room and shut the door behind him, then collapsed, panting, to the floor.

"Tasslehoff Burrfoot, you are an idiot!" He gave his ears a scolding tug. "Look what you did. You went and made Caramon worry over nothing! Well, something, but nothing that was worth worrying about. And after all he's been through, too! You're a very bad kender," he told his reflection in the full-length mirror across the room sternly, who scowled at him in return.

"But," he remembered brightly, "I _did_ manage to keep this hidden." Pulling the object from his shirt front, he admired it in the candlelight. "It's obviously magical, and Caramon would be reminded of Raistlin if he saw it. I spared him a great deal of grief, that's for sure. I guess I can give myself a pat on the back for that." He settled back against the door to examine the object closer.

It was a simple piece, as jewelry goes, but it seemed to be illuminated from the inside, as if a firefly had been caught within its ruby depths. A bright red garnet the size of the kender's small fist was held in a thin silver casing that shimmered as he turned it round and round.

Tas allowed himself a small whistle. "I must say. This is one of the most interesting objects I've ever seen, even if it is rather simple. It seems to have a life of its own, the way it glistens in the candlelight like that… Well, better tuck it away for safekeeping." Skipping across the room, the kender deposited his magnificent find into a pouch, then dropped the pouch into the bottom drawer of his nightstand. He gave the hard mahogany a loving pat, then scrambled onto the bed to sort through every other object that had somehow found its way into his pouches.

Tika woke to the sound of hammering on the roof. Afraid she had missed the opening hour of the Inn, she ran to the window and flung open the curtains. To her relief, the sun was just barely peaking its sleepy head up over the horizon. She sighed and began to dress.

The hammering stopped for a moment, and Tika could hear the strains of a somber war tune being sung from the boughs of the vallenwood. The voice was untrained and coarse, but it was a voice she had missed and longed for ever since its departure all those months ago. Caramon's voice permeated the still summer morning as an ax cleaves a tree.

__

A somber day has dawned this morn

The sun is wary of what it will see

As brother kills brother in hatred born

Of ambition and bitter bigotry.

March on, march on with fire in your eyes

Think nothing of whom you've left behind

Forget, forget, for with memory dies

All the tethers of the mind

A man holds dear the fallen leaves

He gathers to him the breath of the wind

And while his bitter hatred seethes

He mourns the loss of beloved kin.

Once more her husband's words were drowned out by the sound of his axe, but Tika was glad. She did not think she could bear any more of the sad, emotion laden song without turning her head away in misery. She had no doubt of whom Caramon sang, and it made her heart bleed to hear it. Hastily throwing on the rest of her outfit and tying the apron around her waist, Tika made her way for the door. Just as she was about to open it, however, Caramon stepped in, and the two almost collided.

"Oh, sorry, Caramon," Tika mumbled, not able to meet his eyes, as her own were dim and troubled. "I was in a hurry to get to the Inn."

"No surprise there, love," her husband chuckled, brushing wood shavings out of his eyes and taking a nail from behind his ear. Leaning down, he kissed her lovingly. "I was just going to put my wedding ring on the table. I don't want it to get messed up as I work."

Tika smiled, but still didn't look up. "I would say that was a good idea, but with Tasslehoff around…"

"Ah, don't worry about that. Tas is off to some kender party by Crystalmir Lake for today, and he won't be back till tomorrow. So rest easy; your china is safe…for today." Caramon laughed at his own jest and walked over to the table, placing his ring on the smooth teak surface with a fond pat.

"I'm…glad to see you're working on the house again," Tika said suddenly. "I was starting to wonder if it would ever get finished. You don't know how much it means to me."

Caramon grinned at her over his shoulder and took a long drink out of the water pitcher on the table.

Tika uncomfortably smoothed the front of her blouse. "I heard you singing out there," she mumbled, unable to keep it a secret any longer. "It broke my heart. I think I know…who it was for. I'm so sorry." Finally letting her gaze meet his, she was surprised to find him regarding her with a gentle smile.

"Tika, my dearest…" he set the pitcher back on the table and strode over to her. Pulling her into his strong, supple arms, he rested his chin on her waves of red hair. "Just so you know…I regret nothing."

Tika twisted in his embrace so she could look up at him. "Really? I'm sorry, it's just so…hard to believe."

"In those final hours, I proved my worth to Raistlin, Tika." Caramon rested his head against hers. "He saw that I wasn't only a dundering idiot who would be at his beck and call for all eternity. Tika…" his eyes grew misty, and he let his hair fall in front of them to hide the shimmering tears that were forming behind his eyes. "Tika," he continued huskily, "I made him _proud._"

She gave him a questioning look, her brow furrowed doubtfully. "Proud?" she asked. "I didn't think he was capable of that emotion."

"No, I know I did. I could see it in his eyes when I walked away with Lady Crysania…the way his spirit grasped the staff above my hand…and well, we're brothers. We know each other better than anyone. I could feel it. Raistlin looked after me after I exited the portal…and before he…sank into death…he smiled." Caramon buried his face in her hair, willing the fiery curls to burn away his tears and the remorse he still carried in his heart.

"Oh, Caramon…" Tika hugged him close, feeling the sting of tears threaten her own vision. Blinking rapidly, she ran her sword-callused hands through his silky brown locks. "Oddly enough…I believe you. Because not only have you made your brother proud…" she tilted his chin up so he could meet her gaze. His eyes were red-rimmed, but they were dry. She smiled despite herself, and said her next words with as much passion as she felt. "…you've made me proud as well."

Caramon grinned and swiped his hand across his eyes to alleviate the burning sensation that tingled their brown depths. "Thanks, Tika. You don't know how much that means to me. I've wondered so long how I could make it up to you…all those months I spent so uselessly…"

"You've more than made it up to me," Tika murmured. Kissing his cheek, she turned back toward the door. "Well, I'm off to the Inn. Feel free to continue your work. You know it's appreciated." With a wink, she crossed the threshold and started toward the Inn. Caramon's eyes followed her until she disappeared into the kitchen of the big building among the vallenwoods, then, picking up the hammer he had laid on the counter, he went back to work. A merry tune was soon on his lips, and he pounded and sawed with renewed vigor as the sun finally wound its way through the sky.

Chapter Two: Dark Omens

Nuitari sat in sullen, brooding silence, staring into a silvery crystal that was held in his hand. For once he was alone, having asked his cousins to leave him to himself for a while. They had eyed him warily and inquired after his health and well-being, but he had assured them that nothing was wrong and ushered them away, shutting a mental and physical door on the lot of them. In truth, something _was_ wrong, but he didn't feel quite ready to share it with his cousins. And for him to keep to something from his cousins, his nearest and dearest confidantes, was like keeping a secret from himself.

Yet it had to be done.

Nuitari imagined with a bitter smile the looks on their faces, should they come to know of what he had just been informed.

"I would most likely have to pluck Solinari's slack jaw from the floor, then shackle dear Lunitari to keep her from ravaging the Abyss looking for the wretch," he muttered wryly to himself. Irritably he tossed the crystal taken from Solinari's pouch into the shadows. He let his head fall into his hands and rubbed his temples with the tips of his middle fingers. "I should have foreseen this," he raged suddenly, jerking his head in a way that sent his shimmering black locks tumbling wildly about his pale face. With a single shove, he overturned the table that supported the horrid, magical message. The arcane paper of the immortals fluttered to the floor and laid magnanimously on the black marble, as if patiently forgiving his sudden outburst. Disgusted, Nuitari ground his heel into the message and stalked away in a flurry of black robes.

A little ways away – or so it seemed, considering that in the Abyss there was no grasp of distance – Solinari and Lunitari waited in uneasy silence for their cousin. The three were rarely separated, and the god of dark magic had been acting very strangely when he so hurriedly shooed them out of his room. The two immortals cast worried glances at each other, each thinking the same thing; what was wrong with Nuitari?

"We should go in after him," Lunitari announced for third time. "I demand to know what's going on. Nuitari knows that everything we do is shared by all! This secrecy is inexcusable!"

"I do not know, Cousin." Solinari's brow creased in a thoughtful frown. "He is not usually so…withdrawn. Something has definitely happened, and it can't be good." Lifting his gaze, he stared toward the room that held his cousin and whatever secret he might be keeping.

"He has never kept anything from us before, not even when Raistlin Majere betrayed him and sought godhood himself!" Lunitari sniffed indignantly. "Why start now?"

"I do not see why you ask me these questions, dear cousin," Solinari said angrily, "for you must know that I am just as much in the dark as you are."

"I take it that was said with no pun intended, as the people of our dear Krynn are prone to say," Lunitari scoffed, shooting Solinari a scornful look. Tossing her hair, she started toward the doorway. "Anyway, there is very little even Nuitari can do without first consulting us. I suggest we make him tell us, using whatever means necessary."

Solinari shot her an amused smile. "I fail to see what good that will do."

"At least it will make me feel better to know that I have at least tried," she said grimly. Raising her fist, she pounded three times on the door that stood firm and yet wavered, immaterial as the Abyss in which it resided.

No answer came. Lunitari pounded more vigorously, her impatience radiant on her sharp-featured face. Her mouth was set in a grim line, and her eyes flared as she knocked ever harder. Finally, she stepped back furiously and cried, "Nuitari! Open this door immediately!" When she received no answer, she gave the door an enraged kick. "If you won't open it, I will be forced to resort to other measures!"

Solinari came up behind his cousin and rested a gentle but restraining hand on her shoulder. "Dear Cousin, you know if Nuitari does not wish to be disturbed, the Abyss itself will let no one pass through this door. You must calm yourself and think rationally."

"I cannot stand this, Solinari! If he knows something that might affect us or Krynn, we should be the first to know!" The goddess looked up at her kin with glittering eyes. "Solinari, we just returned to our lovely planet. For the first time since the Cataclysm, we have been called upon for our divine assistance, for our loving blessing. I do not wish to lose that again. I have no intention of letting the ones who look to us for guidance go again, with their only blessing being the magic that was theirs by right."

"Well in order to do that, you must remain a _goddess,_ and not succumb to the ways and emotions of the ones we must protect." Solinari embraced his cousin gently, trying to ignore the fact that she trembled with what was either rage or sadness. "You must remain strong. The ones our parents created all those eons ago will not follow one of their own as faithfully as they will follow a goddess of immortal love and compassion."

"Sometimes I think they have the best lot in life," Lunitari muttered to herself. When Solinari inquired after what she had said, she simply shook her head and said it was nothing.

At that moment, the door swung open, startling both gods as they came face to face with their cousin.

"Curse you and your pretty words, Solinari," he hissed, giving his cousin a look of grudging respect. "You have more of your father in you than I would like to admit."

Solinari grinned, releasing Lunitari from the friendly embrace. "So you _were_ listening after all. I suppose I might say the same for you, but I value my health."

"Quiet your silly ramblings, Cousin. Come inside, I have something to show you." Sidestepping out of the way, Nuitari granted his cousins entrance into his chambers. Solinari noted grimly that he had struck a nerve with his well-meaning jest, for Nuitari's mouth was tightened into a bitter line, and his eyes flashed furiously in the dim light of the Abyss. But before the god of white magic could make amends, Nuitari had already started speaking at a breakneck pace.

"I had been hoping that you would trust me enough not cleave into my business," he began, shooting his cousins both a disparaging glance. "However, I do realize that my request for privacy was quite sudden and unprecedented, and I forgive you for your intrusion."

"Praise Gilean," Lunitari muttered.

"As it were, I am at a loss as to what to tell you and what to keep hidden," Nuitari continued icily. "The matter that has come before me is one of dire importance, but I do not wish it to be forced upon anyone other than myself, for it was my own folly, no one else's." Hands clasped behind his back, the god of dark magic began to pace the length of the room.

"What is this folly of which you speak, Cousin?" Solinari asked, watching his cousin anxiously as each step seemed to send a tremor to the heart of the Abyss.

Nuitari stopped pacing long enough to give Solinari a meaningful look. "Let's just say it has to do with a certain dark mage that has been quite a bother in the past."

"You jest!" Lunitari exclaimed, striding over to fall into step with her cousin. "He was effectively destroyed when Caramon Majere went into the Abyss to find--"

"And yet he lives!" Nuitari slammed his fist into the black marble wall. "A half life, a cursed life. And yet he lives on! He is free once more, and the manifestation of his accursed power remains where any unsuspecting, foolish mortal can find it!" He stopped speaking abruptly. Flicking his cousins a withering glance, he said, "I have already said too much."

"What does this mean?" Lunitari demanded, knowing full well that no one would be able to answer.

"It means that Krynn has finally bitten off more than it can chew," Solinari said grimly. He lifted his gaze to meet Nuitari's own black irises. "I think the more prevalent question, my dear Cousin, is what should we do?"

"There is nothing we can do," Nuitari hissed through gritted teeth. "We must wait until he manifests himself once more in the physical world."

"Well, I suppose that grants us considerable time, does it not?" Lunitari looked from one of her cousins to the other. "For he must find a mage of considerable stature and strength, and as of now there are none who possess the kind of power this monster requires."

"I'm afraid that is where you are wrong, my dear Lunitari." Nuitari continued pacing, his angry footsteps echoing through time and space. "So much has he sapped from his former host that he no longer requires the body to be magically inclined. He needs only the vital life force of one who has a strong will to live."

Solinari and Lunitari exchanged looks of helpless perplexity.

"I could speak to my father and ask him to send word to one of his clerics," Solinari ventured. "Perhaps they could do something that could be of help."

"I am sure that in doing so you would do us so much good," Lunitari shot back sarcastically. "The warning would only fall on deaf ears, as it has done so many times in the past."

"There might be one who could help," Solinari argued. "Lady Crysania, head of the Church of Paladine--"

"—would never want to be involved with magic again if she could help it, and with good reason!"

"I believe it would have the exact opposite effect, my dear cousin--"

"You are a fool!" Disgusted, exhausted, and utterly terrified, Lunitari swept out of the room. Solinari followed close after, trying to get her to listen.

"Of course he uses the one artifact over which none of us has power," Nuitari murmured softly after both of them had gone. "Yes, Solinari, go to Paladine; request his divine intervention, for what little good it will actually do. Krynn may very well be on her own this time. The magic this wretch uses spans the ages, and yet was embodied in one soul – one so completely dedicated to the magic that it gave access to the only one who could make it stronger, and that only by destroying his very essence." The god of dark magic folded his hands into the sleeves of his robes and bowed his head, his mind whirling at sonic speed and yet getting nowhere. "Thank you so much, dear Mother," he added acidly, "for giving him the one thing over which I have no control."

He could almost hear Takhisis' laughter as the world once more prepared to go awry.

Crysania walked through a world of darkness. To her left, an endless expanse. To her right, a void. In front, the Abyss. Behind, nothing.

And she was alone.

Even though she could not see, she could sense that there was no one else. No one else…anywhere. Shuddering, she walked forward, hand outstretched as it always was, groping through eternity.

"Where am I?" she cried to no one. Even in her blindness, she had never felt so completely estranged from the light. She heard her call echo back to her a thousand fold, and it sent shivers right down to her soul. It was as if the absent world echoed her cry, as if all creation braced itself for what it could not see and yet could feel inexorably drawing nearer. The feeling withered her to the core.

Then suddenly, the world burst into light. Once more she could see everything as it was around her. The brilliant blue of the sky hung limitlessly in front of her. Birds flitted through the trees, cocking their heads at her and whistling a merry tune. Huge trees towered over her, filtering sunlight onto her upturned face.

She blinked, amazed, astonished, confused, afraid. Had her sight been suddenly returned to her? And if so, how? Had Paladine some part to play? Slowly she turned around, taking it all in, savoring everything she saw even as she questioned and doubted her abrupt gift of sight.

"I have never been here," she realized. "Where on Krynn—oh!" Her wondering was cut short by the sight of a huddled figure cowering beneath a huge vallenwood. It was a man with wavy brown hair that hung in waves to his broad shoulders, which were matched by his equally vast girth. Crysania hurried over to him, prepared to offer him condolences and maybe a blessing. Moving closer, she reached out to touch the man's shoulder.

He whipped around suddenly, and she gasped, frozen in her tracks.

"C…Caramon Majere!" she cried, falling back.

Caramon's face was almost unrecognizable. His cheeks were sunken and drawn, and his eyes darted about with a fear that came only of madness. He reached out to her, his chafed, discolored lips uttering a silent plea for help.

"What…what is it?" Crysania couldn't keep herself from taking another involuntary step back. The hand that groped for hers was mottled and bony; it made her think of a body she'd seen wracked with the plague when she had taken her leap into the past. The thought made her shudder.

Suddenly, Caramon lunged forward, grasping for her, his mouth open in an unheard scream. Crysania cried out and tried to run, but her feet seemed frozen to the ground. She could only watch in horror as he reached for her…and slipped right through her.

"What in the blessed name of Paladine…?" Crysania stared as he continued to clasp at her, only to have his hands disappear through her ethereal flesh. Stumbling back, Crysania tried to brace herself against a vallenwood, only to fall right through the massive trunk. She tried to twist around to catch herself, but found that she was falling faster than she could ever have thought possible. Gritting her teeth, she prepared to hit the bottom of whatever chasm she had fallen into; assuming, of course, it had one.

But no crushing doom came. No hard ground came rushing up to meet her with greedy, inanimate eyes. Instead she was caught in a velvety embrace, surrounded once more in cool, welcome black. Her eyes had gone dark, but she accepted the darkness gladly, nestling into its comforting coolness. The void seemed to welcome her as well; it was almost as if it itself had taken on a tangible form, and was now holding her to it with a strength borne only of a lover's heart.

"Rest easy, my love," it crooned to her, and she felt soft, supple hands smooth back her hair. "Rest easy this night. Be ready. You must be ready; for the test that awaits you will be the hardest you will ever face." It leaned close, and, strangely, she could feel sweet breath upon her lips. With a passion she could not explain, she waited for their caress.

"Be strong," the detached voice murmured, making her blood catch fire and her heart ache with unfathomable lust – lust for strength, lust for compassion…lust for love…

Passionate lips met hers, and she drank of them as a man dying of thirst would drink of a waterskin. She reveled in their touch, was blessed with vital ecstasy just as she realized that it was all a dream.

"Raistlin!" she cried, sitting up in her bed of silk and down. Panting, she groped frantically for him to find only her gossamer bedcurtains. She heard startled yells and footsteps clomping toward her, but none of that mattered. Finally, she let her hands fall limp to her sides.

"It was only a dream," she said bitterly to herself. Tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks, but she did not brush them away. She let them fall onto the bedcovers from unseeing eyes that still held the image of the one she longed for but could not find. "I cannot even remember what he said!" Crysania grasped her head, trying desperately to think of what she had seen, only to have it merge into a gabble of incoherent images and sounds.

"Lady Crysania!" Senan flung opened the door and hastened to her master's side. "What is it? What's wrong?" When Crysania did not respond, Senan took hold of her arm and gave her a gentle shake. "Please, tell me what happened so I may help you!"

"Leave me be," Crysania whispered brokenly. She could still feel his lips against hers. "I want to be alone. Please…please, go."

"But--"

"I am fine! It was only a nightmare."

Senan regarded her dubiously. Crysania was glad that she could not see the expression of pity and doubt on her Revered Daughter's face. Angrily she turned away, refusing to say anything more.

Senan finally gave up and left on the note that the Head of Church would call should she need anything. Shutting the door gently behind her, she slid to the floor with her back against the wall, ready to enter on a moment's notice to care for her master, should the need arise.

Crysania knew her young servant was there, but she dismissed the knowledge with an irritated shake of her head. She knew she shouldn't have been so gruff with the girl, but if gruff was what she needed to be in order to regain her solitude, then she considered it necessary. Sighing, Crysania let her head sink back onto the pillows. She could already tell that the rest of the night would be sleepless and dreary, so long as the scent of rose petals lingered so tantalizingly on the midnight breeze.


	3. Unwanted Meetings

Okay, peeps. In this chapter, I incorporated a bit of a scene from Tracy Hickman and Margaret Weis' _War of the Twins_. I wrote it from Caramon's point of view (don't ask, you'll see), so it's not exactly the same. But what was said is EXACTLY right, and I don't own it IN ANY WAY, SHAPE, OR FORM! The section is _clearly_ marked off, and was necessary for my story to progress. So no one go tattletaling to Wizards of the Coast, 'cause I have one heck of a disclaimer! On that note, I don't own any of the characters either, except Senan and Terren. ;p

Anyway, thanks to Dalamar Nightson for all your advise. Very much appreciated; your suggestions have been incorporated into the draft on my computer. (I'm too lazy to do it on So keep it up!

R&R!

The minute she felt the first rays of morning touch her cheek, Crysania leapt out of bed, throwing her glossy curtains to the side. She dressed quickly and quietly in the clothes her servants had laid out for her, then opened the door to her room. Listening closely, she could make out the slow, even breathing of a sleeping Senan, who lay huddled in her robes at the foot of the door. Crysania smiled knowingly, then pulled off the cloak she had just painstakingly tied over her shoulders and tucked it around Senan. The girl stirred slightly, shifted to get more comfortable, then sank back into blissful oblivion.

Continuing down the hall, her arms crossed to brace herself against the morning chill, Crysania allowed herself to be led to the sanctuary by Paladine's ever present, ever loving voice. Upon entering, she whispered a prayer to her beloved god, and, feeling his blessing envelope her like the warmest blanket, she felt her way toward the alter.

"You are up and about quite early, Revered Daughter," sounded a voice from behind her. Crysania stopped and turned her sightless face toward the speaker.

"I could not sleep," she said evasively. "Good morning to you, Terren. If I may say so, you as well are up with the sun."

"I was worried about you, Revered Daughter," Terren stated, bowing low. His flyaway blond hair formed a yellow halo around his delicate elven face, and his keen gray eyes watched her with interest as he straightened. "I take it all is well?"

"Yes, everything is fine," Crysania lied, hiding her feelings behind her blank, milky eyes. As much as she liked Terren, sometimes it was hard to trust him. She could feel the mischief radiating off the young elf in waves.

As it were, his eyes twinkled knowingly. "Of course, Revered Daughter. Though if I may venture a question?"

Crysania grimaced inwardly. "Go ahead," she said finally.

"It was reported that you awoke in a fever of excitement with the name 'Raistlin' on your lips. Did you dream about him?"

"Th…That is none of your business!" Crysania stammered. Turning quickly, she once more began to grope her way to the alter.

"What did he say to you?" Terren persisted, jogging up to walk at her side. "I do hope he didn't do anything to you?"

"You must be able to tell that I am fine, Terren," she said coolly, trying to move away from him. "I am not hurt in any way."

"And yet your soul cries out in agony," he pointed out. "Though you may not know it, your eyes, however sightless, speak the words your lips cannot."

"You know as well as I do that I cannot control my expressions any longer."

"And yet it is your expressions that speak the truth," he said gently, laying a restraining hand on her arm. "I have one more thing to say, then I will leave you in peace. Never doubt the power of your dreams. You are beloved of Paladine. Anything that comes to you in a dream must be considered carefully, for if it is a vision, you must act upon it according to the will of our god. Remember that, Crysania. Paladine favors you, and thus will he use you to carry out his will." Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her soft skin. Then he turned and walked away without another word.

Crysania waited until the door had slammed shut behind the elf, then turned and stumbled blindly up to the alter. Falling to her knees, she bowed her head so low it touched the marble floor of the alter steps.

"Blessed Paladine," she breathed, hardly able to speak what for her excitement, "are you trying to tell me that Raistlin will return?" She racked her brain, searching for other pieces of the dream. They came, but they were distorted. Caramon's distraught face swam before her eyes, and she grasped it with a mental fist. "What of Caramon? What does it all mean? Give me a sign, any sign! Tell me what to do!"

At that moment, the door to the sanctuary opened, and a mage wearing red robes strode into the room. His sharp eyes immediately found Crysania, who had risen to her feet and was looking toward what she hoped was the door with apparent eagerness. As it were, her eyes stared blankly over his shoulder. The mage sauntered forward and gave an ever-so-slight bow before her.

"Revered Daughter," he said in a deep, musical voice, "I come to you bearing a message from Dalamar the Dark, master of the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas."

"Yes, my son," she replied, barely able to conceal her impatience. Perhaps he carried the sign she had prayed for not a minute earlier. "Speak. What of the message?"

"My Lord Dalamar requests your wise judgment regarding a dream about his _Shalafi_," the man stated respectfully, though his eyes showed what he really thought of this notion. "He asks that you should meet him in the Library of Palanthas at Midday today if at all possible. He has told me to add that it is quite urgent, and your presence is of utmost importance, my Lady."

"Of course I will attend," she said excitedly. So she wasn't the only one who had dreamed of Raistlin. Perhaps this meant something after all. Extending her hand, she commanded, "Take me to Lord Dalamar. I am most interested to hear what he has to say concerning this matter."

The red-robed mage bowed courtly, placed her hand on his arm, and led her from the temple.

Dalamar the Dark impatiently paced the book-lined room in which he had been told to wait. His feathery brows were furrowed in thought, his mouth set in a grim line. His black, silky hair slipped from the loose tie he had fastened into it and swayed about his face as he walked. His padded, soft footsteps were the only sound in the room other than the water timepiece that dripped away the seconds from the mantle.

"Where in the name of the Abyss is she?" he demanded of no one, glancing for what must have been the millionth time at the waterclock. Seeing that it had only been thirty seconds since the last time he had checked the time, he turned, frustrated, back to his pacing.

What for his grumbling and pacing, he did not hear the quiet footfalls of the aesthetic, Bertrem, who startled him as he knocked on the door.

"My Lord Dalamar, your guest awaits you."

"Send her in," the dark elf called, allowing himself to sink into a chair at last.

"Lady Crysania, Revered Daughter of Paladine, Head of the Church," Bertrem announced, opening the door. He gently led Crysania into the room, guiding her around the maze of chairs and tables to sit across from Dalamar. She regarded him with a grateful smile.

"Give this to the man who brought her here," Dalamar ordered, tossing the aesthetic a small bag of steel coins. Bertrem fumbled at the unexpected throw, but managed to hold onto the money pouch. With a resentful bow, he stalked out, shutting the door behind him.

"So what of the dream?" Crysania asked, eagerly leaning forward in her seat.

Dalamar fixed the blind woman with an amused look. "It seems you have picked up more from my _Shalafi_ than I could have imagined," he chuckled. "You get right to the point, as was his way."

"This information is of the utmost importance," Crysania said sternly. "I did not journey halfway across Palanthas for tea and pleasantries."

Dalamar laughed outright. "No, I suppose you did not." Shaking his head with a sardonic grin, he picked up his teacup and drained the contents. "Why don't you tell me what you saw, then I will compare it to mine."

"No. I wish to hear your version of the dream first, if you please."

Deigning this to be a battle that wasn't worth his time, Dalamar conceded. "As you wish, my Lady. In my dream, I saw Caramon Majere. He was acting very strangely; he was clawing at me and silently pleading with me until I thought he must be mad. But there was something that kept me from believing this, and that was the fact that there seemed to be another presence there as well. It was almost as if he were fleeing from it, though I could not see what it was.

"Then he was gone; replaced by my _Shalafi_. The _Shalafi_ spoke to me that I must be wary of upcoming events, that I must 'be strong'." Dalamar snorted at this as if this were the most ridiculous notion in the world, but he continued. "This is the part that I did not understand, and thus I seek your counsel. Have you any idea of what he meant by 'upcoming events'?"

Crysania had gone white. Her milky eyes stared wide-eyed into space, and her lower lip trembled. Frowning, Dalamar reached out and lightly touched her shoulder.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

"So it is true," Crysania murmured, as if she had not heard the question. Slowly, she touched her fingertips to her lips. "It was all true."

"You do not know that for certain, my Lady," Dalamar said firmly. "We must consider the possibility that it was coincidence."

Crysania turned her sightless eyes on the dark elf, a sight that was disturbing and yet strangely compelling at the same time. The whitening depths seemed to see right into his soul, even if they were forever blinded to the mortal plane.

"You know as well as I do that it is not coincidence, Dalamar," she said softly, shrugging his hand off her shoulder in order to take it between hers. Her face was alight, radiant with hope and renewed purpose. "That vision was not a coincidence. Raistlin was speaking to us; I know it. Somewhere in the near future, he is going to have great need of us. And, through Paladine's blessing, he was able to let us know."

"I doubt Paladine would ever want me included in his plans," Dalamar said icily. He pulled his hand away from her as if he had been burned, rubbing the delicate knuckles and regarding her with dismay. "I fear there is some other force at work here."

"No," Crysania said resolutely. She raised her face to the heavens. "It was Paladine. I am sure of it."

Dalamar rolled his eyes, but wisely chose to say nothing more on the issue. Let her believe what she will, he thought. I have no right to take her happiness from her. Pushing himself to his feet, he cleared his throat. "In any case, I will be departing to Solace within the hour. I am going to confront Caramon Majere, in case he has any clue at all as to what all this may mean. I would request my Lady's presence, but I doubt that can be arranged."

Crysania hesitated. She knew she had her duties here, but she desperately wanted to go to Solace for answers. If there was any chance Caramon might know something about the dream, she wanted to hear it. Battling with herself, she said nothing.

"Well?" Dalamar demanded. "I do not have the time to wait for your decision. If you do not decide within the next five minutes, I will leave you here, regardless of what you make up your mind to do."

Before Crysania could reply, the door swung open. Senan strode into the room, followed by a very blustered Bertrem, who was trying without success to keep her from barging in on the two. Mopping his forehead, he bowed hastily to Dalamar and Crysania.

"Forgive me," he stammered, looking at Senan with obvious irritation. "She demanded to be admitted, and before I could announce her she had already blasted through the--"

"Lady Crysania!" Senan shoved past the rambling Bertrem and knelt before the Head of Church, grasping her hand earnestly. "I have had a vision!"

Dalamar's eyebrows arched, and Crysania frowned. Giving the girl's hand a squeeze, she looked troubled. "What kind of vision?"

"Well, there was this man--"

"Was he collapsed on the ground before you, crying out in a silent plea for help?" Dalamar asked, lacking the patience to hear an excited teen's flustered story.

Senan gave him a strange look. "No. Now if you would please let me continue…" she turned back to Crysania and launched once more into her tale. "He was cloaked all in black like a mage, and he had silver runes on the hems of his robes. He had this amazing silver hair and the most intriguing golden eyes that looked like hourglasses. Hourglasses! Can you believe it?" In her excitement to tell her story, the normally calm, collected cleric was once more the ecstatic maiden who had just received something of immense value and wanted to share it with the world. Her words tumbled over each other as she hurried to tell her story, her eyes shining. "And he was talking to me…he was telling me of all the things that he wanted to do, everything that was denied him. He wanted me to help him, Mother! How can I…Mother?"

Crysania's jaw had dropped. Her expression was one of utter astonishment and betrayal. Tears welled up in her eyes, and though they did not drop, neither did they fade.

"He…he…" Words were lost to her as she tried to comprehend her situation.

"Did I say something wrong?" Senan looked worriedly to Dalamar, who was regarding her with extreme interest.

"No," Dalamar said after a time. His dark eyes flicked over the girl, taking everything in. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, unwittingly reverting to the cool cleric state. Forcing herself to stand still and confidant, she met his eyes with an unwavering will.

"Take Senan with you, Lord Dalamar," Crysania said abruptly, tilting her head so her hair fell in her eyes. "She will make a better companion than I would anyway."

"Wait," Senan interrupted. "Where am I going? What is going on?"

"I seek a companion to accompany me to Solace to interrogate Caramon Majere," Dalamar replied. "I have reason to believe that he might have an idea as to how to interpret these visions."

"Why Caramon Majere?" Senan asked, interested.

"Because he is the twin brother of Raistlin Majere, the man you saw in your dream," Dalamar stated matter-of-factly, giving her a scornful look.

Crysania said nothing, keeping her head bowed.

Senan glanced at her uneasily, then turned back to Dalamar. "Raistlin Majere…As in, _the_ Raistlin Majere? The mage who sought godhood all those years ago?"

"Glad to see you know your history," Dalamar said dryly.

Giving Crysania another worried look, she looked back at the dark elf with a purposefully blank expression that he could read all too clearly. "As in…_Lady Crysania's_ Raistlin Majere?"

"I wouldn't tie him to any one person, you young whelp," Dalamar admonished severely. "To do so would be a great folly on your part. But yes, he _is_ indeed the Raistlin that wedged himself so painfully in your master's heart."

"But…but that's impossible!" Senan nearly shouted. "The man I saw in my dream wasn't evil. He was a prisoner, a loner who needed help--"

"He was all that and more," Dalamar interrupted. "The _Shalafi_ was indeed a prisoner. He was very much a loner. However, he was all these things of his own free will. He gave everything for the magic, left nothing for the human being."

"He is not evil," Crysania murmured, her hand traveling absently to her lips. "He may have been misguided, corrupted…but he was not evil. Evil turns in upon itself," she stated louder, pushing herself to her feet. "Yet he was torn from the grasp of the Dark Queen to rest in eternal peace. Yes, he committed heinous acts in his life. As have we all. But…" her voice softened, her hand moving from her lips to the medallion that hung around her neck, "…he had the courage to pay for them." Extending her hand, she made the sign of the blessing of Paladine. "Go with Lord Dalamar, my daughter. Paladine has erased my doubts. Godspeed on your journey, and be careful. You are in the hand of Paladine."

Startled by this abrupt change in disposition, Senan nodded dumbly. Then, remembering her master could not see her, she mumbled a quick, "Yes, Mother."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to be going now." Dalamar grabbed Senan's arm roughly. He could see right through Crysania's attempt to disguise her unfounded jealousy of the young cleric, but he chose to ignore it, dismissing it as irrelevant. "I wish you good fortune, Revered Daughter. May your god forever guide your footsteps." With a curt bow and an impatient flick of his wrist, the dark elf and his companion disappeared to walk the invisible paths of magic.

When they had gone, Crysania sank back into her chair, closing her sightless eyes. "This keeps getting stranger and stranger," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "I am beginning to think that trying to figure things out is a waste of time. Nothing makes sense." Opening her milky eyes, she stared into the endless void that was so much like the Abyss. "Raistlin, what are you planning? What are you trying to tell me? Or…" she frowned at the new possibility. "…is that even you?"

No answer came. The room was silent, except for the eternal drip of the waterclock.

Chapter three: Wicked Nostalgia.

Caramon worked all through the night and well into the next day, never noticing his wearying limbs or watering eyes. He whistled a cheerful tune, the sun lighting his hammer blows by day, Solinari's soft, silver sheen brightening his work by night. He did not hear Tika's call that he had worked enough, for perhaps he didn't want to hear it. So absorbed he was in his work that the passage of time meant nothing; the sound of the saw and the sparks the hammer spat when it struck the nails were the only things he saw or heard.

Finally, he became dimly aware of a tickle of thirst at the back of his throat, one that had become so insistent that it be acknowledged that he could not ignore it any longer. Laying down his hammer, he rubbed irritably at his neck, swallowing a few times in hopes that it would go away. It didn't. Annoyed, he reached for his waterskin, only to find it empty. Cursing his mortality and rubbing his bleary eyes, he stumbled down the stairs of the mighty vallenwood and entered the Inn of the Last Home.

"I was beginning to think you'd never stop working," Tika called from across the room, where she was serving a table of grumbling dwarves who were on the road to sell their wares in Haven. Hastily setting down their drinks, she hurried across the room to wrap her husband in a warm embrace. "Glad to see you finally decided to take a break."

"It won't be for long. I have to finish putting up the east wall, else it might be ruined in a storm," Caramon grunted, kissing her cheek idly and looking hungrily at the keg of ale mounted behind the bar. Tika followed his gaze, and, shaking her head with an amused smile, went to fill a tankard for him. Caramon sat down at one of the booths, grateful to rest his legs for a while. He yawned and stretched, suddenly realizing how tired he was. Considering taking a short catnap, he rested his chin on his arms and let his eyes drift shut.

Not two minutes had passed before he received a painful poke to his side.

"What the—"

"Hullo, Caramon!" Tas's impish face was shoved right into Caramon's, and the big man let out a yelp of surprise. Nearly toppling over backwards, Caramon scrabbled to regain his balance.

Tas shook his head. "You should really work on how you greet people, Caramon," the kender chided. "One might think that you're not happy to see him."

Knowing it was no use to tell the kender that _he _should work on not scaring the piss out of a person when he was sleeping, Caramon forced himself to put on a friendly, if exasperated, smile. "Of course, Tas," he said through gritted teeth, "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

"Good," the kender said cheerfully. "Anyway, I just got back from Uncle Trapspringer's birthday party! It was quite exciting. Would you like to hear about it?" Before Caramon could answer, Tas nodded and continued eagerly. "Well, we had this big boat that someone had mistakenly left on the shore. We decided that we were going to try and sail it back to him, but none of us knew how to sail. Then Thistledown remembered a story Uncle Trapspringer had told her about how he had sailed across the Blood Sea of Istar on a merchant's boat. It was a very interesting story. You see, it all began when Uncle Trapspringer was playing a friendly game of tag with the police of Ergoth when…"

Caramon let Tas ramble happily on, not hearing a word the kender said. He gratefully downed the huge tankard his wife had set in front of him, letting the fiery liquid quench the enormous thirst that he didn't even know he had. When the mug was empty, he stared remorsefully at the empty bottom, then set it down on the table. Now that his throat was adequately wetted, he felt sleep creeping up on him like an assassin. Vaguely thinking that he did not much like this analogy, Caramon let his head sink onto the table, asleep before his forehead ever touched the smoothed mahogany.

After a few minutes, Tas noticed he had lost his audience. Somewhat annoyed, Tas told himself that he would have to have a firm talk with Caramon after he awoke, concerning his increasingly bad habit of being quite rude. Turning on his heel, the kender tottered off to find another unsuspecting victim on whom to lavish his tales.

A few hours later, Caramon was once more prodded into wakefulness by another annoying poke to the ribs. Irritably opening a groggy eye, the big warrior was about to scold the thoughtless kender when he noticed that instead of looking into the mischievous eyes of Tasslehoff Burrfoot, he was instead staring straight into the cunning face of Dalamar the dark.

Caramon sprang to his feet, immediately awake and alert. Dalamar regarded him with slight amusement, then gave a polite bow.

"Caramon Majere," he said in his strong voice. "I am pleased to find you in good health."

"What are you doing here?" Caramon demanded. He had never much liked the dark elf, and it didn't help that he did not exactly have a good history with his kind.

"I come seeking your wise counsel," Dalamar replied. Caramon thought he heard a bit of a sneer on the word 'wise', but he let the insult slide.

"Regarding…?"

"A certain…premonition, if you will." Dalamar turned to look behind him, and appeared to be annoyed by what he saw.

"Premonition?" Caramon craned his neck, trying to see around the dark elf. Seeing only a young girl dressed all in white, he blinked. "What is it?"

"My companion," Dalamar said simply. "Revered Daughter, I beg of you to remember yourself and come forward. This is Caramon Majere, the man we seek."

"Of…of course." The girl seemed shaken, and she tottered forward dizzily, as if trying to get her bearings after a long fall. Caramon guessed Dalamar had brought the unsuspecting cleric through the corridors of magic, and he frowned in disdain.

"What premonition could be so important that you would drag a poor young woman through the wretched paths of the mages?" the big man demanded, hefting himself to his feet to support the young girl, who gave him a thankful look and leaned heavily on his arm.

"One concerning your twin brother," Dalamar said coldly.

"Raist? I mean…Raistlin?" Caramon stammered, quickly correcting the usage of his brother's childhood nickname. It seemed out of place. "What about him? What of the dream?"

"One question at a time!" Dalamar growled. "All will be answered soon. Let us be seated." Grabbing the cleric's arm, Dalamar steered her roughly into the booth where Caramon had slept. She pulled her arm away, giving him a baleful glare.

Caramon glanced around at the various looks of dismay and distrust that showed in the faces of the Inn's customers. Giving them a sheepish shrug, he sat down across from Dalamar, trusting that they would mind their own business, knowing that they would not. He could already hear their excited whispers and the scrape of chairs as they all leaned in to hear what the dark elf had to say.

"I must begin by asking if you have experienced anything strange as of late," Dalamar began, holding Caramon's eyes with his own. "Please relate anything that you have seen that is out of the ordinary."

"Aside from your sudden appearance at the Inn, no," Caramon said warily.

Dalamar did not smile. "I see. I suppose this makes my task a bit more difficult." Resting his elbows on the table, the dark elf steepled his fingers and fixed the warrior with a penetrating gaze. "I speak for myself, my companion, and Lady Crysania when I say that we have had a dream that is extremely disconcerting. I believe it to be a premonition of sorts, and I award it high prevalence. The reason I have come before you is that this dream also concerned you."

"Me?" Caramon was dumbfounded, and suddenly afraid.

"That's what I said," Dalamar said dryly. "In the dream, you were pleading for my help. You were beaten down, worthless, cowering at my feet. Your eyes would make one think you were mad, but I could see that--"

"So you dreamed that I cowered before you, sniveling like a whipped dog?" Caramon sneered. "Is that what you came to tell me? That I would be your servant, at your beck and call?"

"If you would allow me to finish, I could explain," Dalamar growled, his dark eyes flashing fiercely in the sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows. "As I was saying, I could see that you were indeed not mad as I had first believed, but you were being controlled by another, and you desperately sought escape."

Caramon stared.

"Gruesome, isn't it?" Dalamar smirked grimly. "After this encounter, I was suddenly in the presence of my _Shalafi_, who told me to expect to be included in upcoming events. From his grave tone, I gathered that these events would not exactly be a picnic by a stream. Have you any idea what he could have meant?"

Caramon shook his head stiffly, his eyes never blinking.

"He said that he needed help," Senan ventured hesitantly. "He wanted me to help save him from his prison, or something like that."

"Raistlin is resting peacefully in the arms of Paladine," Caramon said quietly through parched lips.

"I'm not so sure," Dalamar returned. "If he were safely at rest, why would he have bothered to send us this premonition?"

"Perhaps he did _not_ send it," Caramon said coldly. "For all we know, that dream could have been sent by our dear Takhisis."

"The Dark Queen could never have penetrated my thoughts," Senan stated firmly. "I am a cleric of Paladine, and he shelters me from her influence."

"That's exactly what Crysania said," Caramon muttered. "Famous last words."

"Be that as it may, this dream still deserves to be awarded special attention," Dalamar said.

"I'm in no mood to play mystic." Caramon pushed himself to his feet, indicating that the conversation was over. "If you want, my brother used to have a book about premonitions and dreams that I could fetch for you. Otherwise, I have nothing more to say."

"Would your brother by any chance have written notes concerning this book?"

"He used to scribble in the margins, if that's what you mean."

A smile curled Dalamar's thin lips. "Alright. Fetch me this book."

Cursing Dalamar and everything he stood for, Caramon turned on his heel and stalked back toward the stairs.

A few minutes later, he stood outside the room he had built for his brother all those months ago. Being the only finished room in the new house, it stood out starkly against the unfinished framework of the surrounding rooms. Caramon shook his head, gravely amused that he should have to enter the room he had just vowed to seal shut. I'll just be in and out. That easy, he thought to himself. Swallowing hard, he pushed open the door.

Even though his brother had never taken up residence in the empty room, it still spoke loudly of the mage's presence. Everything in it screamed his brother's name, and though Caramon kept his eyes trained on the floor, it still echoed clearly through his mind.

Caramon quickly yanked the trunk he needed off the shelf and threw open the top, coughing as the dust flew into his nose and eyes. Blinking to clear his vision, he riffled through the stacks of books and parchment.

His hand came to rest on a worn, leather cover. Thinking this to be the book he needed, he pulled it out of the pile and blew the dust off the cover. As the dust was blasted away, Caramon almost dropped the book as he read the cover.

The old, crinkled, well-used leather bore the words, _Sleight-of-Hand Techniques Designed to Amaze and Delight!_

Caramon choked as he fingered the letters lovingly, his mind picking him up and carrying him on memory's wings to the time before the terrible Test, when his brother had been healthy, caring (well, to his eyes), and full of hopes and dreams. He could still see Raistlin standing up on the stump, making coins fall out of people's noses and lifting wonderful apparitions from thin air. He could still hear his brother's complaint of stage fright, still see Master Theobald's furious red face as he scolded Raistlin for stooping so low. Caramon hugged the book close, then forced himself to replace it in its pile. Quickly retrieving the book he needed, he slammed the chest shut and shoved it back onto the shelf. Muttering that he should have let Dalamar stew in his own juice, he swiped his hand angrily across his eyes and stomped out of the room, shutting the door behind him with such a bang that a hammer fell from the workbench and clattered to the floor. He paid it no heed.

As he was about to reenter the Inn, he remembered that he had left his wedding ring on his kitchen table. Deciding with grim satisfaction that Dalamar could wait, he continued down the steps that led to the ground and walked with purposeful strides toward his temporary home.

Once inside, he was not surprised to find that his ring was gone. He gave himself a mental slap for not rememebering that Tas would be home, and immediately went to check the kender's room. Tas had not been at the Inn when Dalamar had arrived, and though it wasn't likely that the kender would be home at such an opportune time to go adventuring, there was always the chance that he had left an extra pouch or two laying about.

Caramon walked into the small bedroom and looked around. No extra pouches were in sight, but the big man remembered Tas saying something about since there was the possibility of thieves, he would keep extra valuable things in the bottom drawer of his nightstand. Caramon continued over to the wooden stand and pulled open the drawer, noting with some amusement that Tas had not bothered to lock it.

"Aha," he said softly, plucking his wedding ring from the bottom of the drawer. "I'll have to remind Tas that this is off limits. Though what good that will do, I have no idea." He eyed the pouch with interest, then picked it up with the intent of returning all the items that Tas had so kindly 'found' for the citizens of Solace. Upending it on the bed, he began to sort through the various items.

One that caught his interest was a ruby necklace that sparkled in the sunlight. Or was it sunlight? He couldn't tell. A thin, spidery line of silver snaked its way around the blood-red gem. Caramon peered closer, eyeing it with interest.

Suddenly he wasn't in the room anymore. _(The following are accurate events taken from Weis and Hickman's _War of the Twins. _In no way do I own this, for it is completely the work of their wonderful imaginations. Special thanks to the authors that created this breathtaking scene. May your pouches always be full.)_

Caramon looked around wildly. He stood in a room that was made of solid stone and reeked of rose petals and bad guano. Shelves upon shelves of books lined the walls, and three tables set with silver candleholders were placed in the center of the room. At one table, six young mages, dressed in red robes and black, sat together, laughing, talking, and pointing out their latest find in one of the ancient books. Caramon blinked, unsure of what to make of it. Turning around slowly, his gaze came to rest upon a single black robed mage, who sat alone at the table furthest away from the rest.

The mage was glaring disdainfully at his fellows, who carefully avoided looking in his direction. Supple hands were folded over a closed spellbook with night-blue binding and silvery arcane symbols scrawled across the cover. This mage's cowl was drawn over his eyes, but it seemed that there was a familiar glint in his brown eyes…

Caramon gasped. "Raistlin!" Reaching out his hand, he tried to cross the room to his brother, but found that he couldn't move. Raistlin did not respond, just continued to stare, a malicious snarl curling his lip.

At that moment, the door on the far side of the room creaked open. In walked the oldest man Caramon had ever seen. His face was a mass of wrinkles, the small, beady eyes seeming to stare out of an old, crinkled bit of parchment. Black, ruddy robes fell in heavy waves about the mage's ankles.

The ancient mage eyed each and every one of the others with a greedy look. His expression was cunning, calculating. As he surveyed the room, his hand idly stroked the ruby necklace he wore around his neck.

Caramon stared at it. Yes, it was the one that he had found in Tas's drawer. Suddenly, a wave of cold dread washed over him. The big man shuddered and wondered desperately how Tas had come across it.

Satisfied, the old man shuffled across the room, each step causing his ancient bones to creak and snap. Reaching the front of the room, the mage lowered himself into a chair, never taking his eyes off the apprentices before him.

"Begin the test," he croaked, his hand closing almost hungrily over the bloodstone at his throat as he watched the first of what Caramon could only assume to be his apprentices rise.

The young mage, a red-robe, clasped his hands nervously behind his back and began to recite his spells. Caramon recognized them, and involuntarily shrank back. But nothing happened. The words of the spell seemed to float on the air, then disappeared as if they had never been. After a few more minutes, the young man sat down, looking pleased with himself.

The others sitting at the table with him did the same, going in order from left to right. After they had all taken their seats, the old archmage turned to Raistlin, who sat at the other side of the room, fixing his mentor with what was almost a patronizing grin.

"Your turn, mage," the archmagus said, his old eyes glinting as he eyed the young man.

Lips still curled in that horrible sneer, Raistlin snapped shut his spellbook. The words of magic rolled glibly off his tongue, causing the other mages to regard him with undisguised hatred and envy. As he spoke, the room erupted into mulitcolored flames, shattered the silence with a sonic explosion.

The old mage's jaw had dropped. The other mages gasped. Caramon looked on with grim satisifaction, brotherly pride winning out over old disputes.

"How did you break the Dispel Magic spell?" the ancient archmagus demanded. "What strange power is this?"

Raistlin leered, opening his hands to reveal two flames of blue and green. Then, by a clap of his hands, the fire was gone. The room went eerily silent.

The old mage was on his feet, stumbling as fast as he could toward Raistlin. Anger radiated off him in waves that seemed almost tangible.

Raistlin stood calmly, watching him approach with the same, eerie smile.

"How did you--" the old man growled. Then, seeing the mage's supple, slender hands, he reached out and grabbed Raistlin's wrist with a grip of death. Raistlin gasped in pain, but somehow managed to retain the sneer, his eyes defiantly meeting his master's.

"Flash powder!" the old mage proclaimed, disgusted. He jerked the young mage forward, exhibiting his hand for all to see. "A common sleight-of-hand trick, fit only for street illusionists!"

"Thus I earned my living," Raistlin forced through gritted teeth. "I thought it suitable for use in such a collection of amateurs as you have gathered together, Great One."

It had finally begun to dawn on Caramon exactly what he was witnessing. "So this is the trial he faced with Fistandantilus," he said gravely. "Perhaps now I can know why he was compelled to commit such heinous crimes."

"So you consider yourself better than these?" Fistandantilus was asking Raistlin.

"You know I am!" Raistlin hissed, after pausing to fight back the haze of pain.

Fistandantilus released Raistlin, who let out a sigh of relief, and turned to the rest of his apprentices, who were regarding him in dismay. "Get out!" he screeched. As they turned to leave, he caught Raistlin by the arm. "You stay," he said coldly.

Suddenly time seem to whirl by. Caramon was no longer in the room with the tables and bookshelves. Instead, he was in what looked like a mage's laboratory, watching Fistandantilus press the bloodred stone into his brother's chest. Raistlin laid on a long, stone table, breathing heavily with anticipation. Fistandantilus called to mind the words he needed; his lips moved, and he seemed to be chanting a spell. But as he spoke, as did Raistlin. Raistlin's fevered words matched those of the haggard old mage. Fistandantilus didn't seem to notice. He was too intent on casting the spell just right.

Time whirled past again. Raistlin was on his feet now, a pendant identical to that of Fistandantilus clutched in his raised hand. No, thought Caramon, that _is_ the pendant of Fistandantilus!

"Protected from all forms of magic," Raistlin was saying, his lips curled into a hideous grin, "but not protected against the sleight-of-hand. Not protected against the skills of a common street illusionist…"

Time sped faster. Fistandantilus summoned a horrible creature from a distant plane of existence. The stone floor heaved and crumbled as the thing crawled seemingly from the depths of the planet. Caramon watched in horror as Fistandantilus ordered the monstrosity upon his brother, who halted momentarily in fear. He watched as Raistlin spoke the spidery words of magic. He watched as the creature, drawn in two directions, imploded upon itself.

Both mages were thrown backwards, smashed mercilessly into the walls. Raistlin scrambled desperately to his feet, his eyes never leaving his foe. Fistandantilus did the same.

"So it comes to this!" Fistandantilus spat. "You could have gone on, living a life of ease. I would have spared you the debilities, the indignities of old age. Why rush your own destruction!"

"You know," Raistlin said softly, panting.

"Yes, I know, my dear brother," Caramon said softly, watching the two mages speed into a battle that was in fast forward. He saw his brother collapse, victorious, yet beaten with exhaustion. He watched the body of Fistandantilus wither and crumble, then float away on a nonexistent breeze. He watched as one mind became two, as two ambitions became one. "I know," he repeated, his voice breaking, "that you would never give anyone else the satisfaction of guiding your steps."

The image of the room faded. And with the darkness, a small, lost voice floated to Caramon's ears.

"Who am I?"

__

(Once again, thanks so much to Tracy Hickman and Margaret Weis. Thank you for letting me use your wonderful words to portray this scene. You are truly the masters of Dragonlance.)


	4. Awakening

Caramon opened his eyes to find himself once again in Tas's bedroom. He was sprawled on the floor, the blood red gem glistening still clutched tightly in his hand. Gazing at it in horror, he flung it across the room with all his might. It clattered off the wall and landed on the floor, lazily laughing at him with its twinkling red light.

"Cursed thing," he breathed, scrambling away from it. "You did this to my brother. You caused everything that happened to him!" Suddenly, resolutely, he pushed himself up and strode over to the gem, scooping it up none-too-gently with an angry fist. "Cursed Fistandantilus," he cried. "I'll have Dalamar destroy this, the bane of my brother's existence! This time, you will be gone for good!"

_You know that's not true,_ a sly voice whispered into his ear.

Caramon whirled. "Who's there!" he demanded, whipping his head this way and that.

_No one, as of now. But that will change soon enough. However, I regret to say that you yourself will not be around long enough to witness my glorious return. And, for giving me this chance, I will open the portal for my Queen, and she will enter the world, as she was supposed to all those many years ago!_

"What are you talking about?" Caramon called desperately. His world was once again starting to reel around him, pitching him this way and that though he never moved. Sinking to the ground, he felt his hand tighten involuntarily around the cursed necklace.

_I am now going to exact the revenge my former host craved all those years ago. I will inhabit your strong body, and I will rule, as he was meant to rule! _Laughter echoed through Caramon's spinning mind. _What irony it is that the one he sought to protect by giving up everything that was precious to us is now my slave. I hope you're watching this, Raistlin Majere! I hope you endure the torture you should have felt for all eternity!_

The spinning world faded into darkness, and Caramon Majere faded with it, leaving behind nothing but a lifeless vessel waiting to be filled.

Chapter 4: Awakening.

"So," Nuitari said softly, gazing once more into his crystal ball, "he has shown himself at last. Solinari, Lunitari! Come to me. The time has come."

Solinari looked up from his restless pacing. Lunitari bounded into the room in a flurry of ruby robes. They both hurried over to their cousin, their expressions identical – determined, anxious, and somewhat afraid.

"What do we do?" Solinari asked, watching his cousin expectantly.

"It is only a matter of time," Nuitari replied. With a flick of his wrist, he transported them to a building that soared into the lifeless heavens that glowed with an eerie light.

"The Final Resting Place?" Lunitari frowned, her pretty head tilited back to take in the awesome sight.

"Yes, dear Cousin. It is here that we will find our answer."

The Final Resting Place was a building made of black granite, torn from the heart of Krynn, made up of the stones of every tomb erected since the creation of the world. Here were housed the souls of the dead, the ones who had completed their duties to the living, but were not blessed enough to enter into other planes of existence. As Mishakal called it, the Prison of the Dead. Ruled by Takhisis and her legion of dark gods, it was a fiendish place of terror, torture, and pain.

"Why are we here?" Solinari demanded. "Raistlin Majere moved on because of his selfless sacrifice. We will not find him here."

"That is where you are wrong, Solinari," Nuitari said softly, his eyes trained on the door of the enormous building. "This place is the closest the souls of evil will ever get to reaching the light they so desperately crave. Though it may be the final terrible resting place of these souls, it is also the portal to the next plane of existence. Those seeking eternity must pass through here."

"How do you know this?"

Nuitari momentarily took his gaze from the gargantuan doors, giving his cousin a scornful look. "Do you forget who my parents are?" he asked icily.

Solinari fell silent, averting his gaze. Nuitari returned his eyes to the Prison of the Dead.

Suddenly the ground began to shake. The sky of the Abyss, ever a haunting shade of pink, seemed to tear open as light blasted through the roiling heavens. The light struck the Final Resting Place, sending Solinari and Lunitari tumbling to the ground. Nuitari alone remained standing, his eyes not bothered in the least by the light. The door was cracked open by the blast.

"Thus does the portal open," he murmured, watching the light fade away, "and thus does it begin."

Raistlin Majere was sprawled on the mosaic floor of the Final Resting Place. His white hair splayed around his gold-tinged face, and his golden hourglass eyes stared blankly into space. He groaned, shaking his head from side to side in attempt to clear his muddled thoughts.

"Where…am I?" he mumbled through stiffened lips. The reflection of a brilliant light stained the back of his eyelids, obscurring his vision. He blinked rapidly, though it hurt his eyes to do so. Eventually the blue and purple splotches of blindness faded. Even as his sight returned, he found himself longing for the light to come back and take him away once more.

"Caramon…" Raistlin slowly sat up, pain searing through every part of him, tearing right down to his soul. He put his head in his hands, trying to place himself. "My brother, what has happened?" he rasped. "You were right here…you gave me peace…"

A light appeared behind him, painstakingly becoming visible in the mage's faltering sight Turning toward it, he crawled toward it longingly, hoping to lose himself once again in painless oblivion. As he drew nearer, he realized that the light was not that of a heavenly portal, but of a slightly cracked door. The door was immense, carved with intricate runes that he did not recognize. Intrigued, Raistlin pushed himself to his feet and stumbled over to them.

Reaching the door, Raistlin ran his supple fingers across the runes, watching in fascination as they glittered at his touch. Pale, pink-tinged light reflected dully off his metallic skin. Suddenly the door swung open under his hand, and he tumbled through the opening, cursing himself for being so careless.

He landed with a thud and an oath after careening down a long flight of stairs. Strangely, he did not hurt as he had upon first finding himself in this strange place. The fall was an inconvenience, nothing more.

"Of course it did not hurt, you fool," he told himself bitterly, "you are dead; you are nothing more than a spirit, transparent and ethereal as a cloud of mist."

"Raistlin Majere," a voice rang out above him. Raistlin instinctively started to rise, but fell back again when he found himself face to face with the god of dark magic, Nuitari. Bowing low before him, Raistlin once more cursed himself and his foul luck.

"What am I doing here, Great One?" Raistlin asked, allowing the right amount of reverence and awe creep into his voice, though he felt none. "I was at rest, waiting for my brother to join me, when suddenly I was torn from him and cast here. I must inquire as to what is going on."

Nuitari shot him an amused look. "Of course you must inquire as such, my dear servant." His face grew shadowed. "Rise. I have much to tell you."

"I'll just bet you do," Raistlin muttered into the hem of his robe. Keeping his head bowed, he cautiously rose to his feet.

"The reason you have been so suddenly wrenched from your eternal rest is simply because your brother is no longer there to hold you to your peace," Nuitari explained quickly. "Your counterpart, Fistandantilus, has found another host. You have one guess as to who that may be."

Raistlin raised his eyes. Then he laughed. "Surely you jest," he spat viciously, though in his voice there was a hint of what might have been fear. "Fistandantilus is only drawn to those of immense magical prowess. He would not be interested in my bumbling fool of a brother."

"And yet it is your 'bumbling fool of a brother's' body he prepares to enter," Nuitari said impatiently. "As we speak, your brother's body is being readied for his entry."

"Impossible!" Raistlin shrieked, causing Nuitari to cast him an annoyed look. "There is no way! My brother does not possess any magic whatsoever! This cannot be!"

"If you would allow me to speak," Nuitari interrupted testily, "I would alleviate your concerns."

Raistlin fell silent, turning away from the god.

"You will face me when I address you!" Nuitari roared, losing all patience. Whirling the mage around with sheer force of will, he magically threw him to the ground. "Caramon Majere possesses no magic. You know this, and I know it. But the magic Fistandantilus sapped from you, my dear servant, is so vast that he needs no one of magical ability."

Raistlin stared defiantly up at the god, even as he quaked in fear. His worries erased, he could once more face the magic lord with dignity.

Nuitari glared down at him, furious that he should be so humiliated in front of his cousins, who stood off to the side. Using his magic to set the mage on his feet, the god grabbed Raistlin by the collar. "You will find a way back to Krynn," he hissed. "You will defeat Fistandantilus once and for all. My cousins and I will assist you in any way you deem necessary. Should you succeed, you will be granted eternal salvation; salvation you yourself earned, not that which you stole from your brother."

Raistlin smirked. "I did not know the gods could be so afraid of a mortal."

"We do not fear a mortal," Nuitari sneered. "We fear who the mortal represents."

"Your dear mother, I believe," the mage snorted. "Very well. I will find a way back to Krynn. The only assistance I require is the ability to communicate with my servant, Dalamar. To ask more of you, Great One, would be to overstep my boundaries – to take that which I do not deserve." Raistlin bowed low. "I am deeply grateful of that which you offer me, but I fear that even if I succeed, it is a reward I cannot accept. I must pay for my sins, as does every being. Let my brother achieve his path to the next plane. My only reward will be to know that he is safe…" he trailed off, then added, almost inaudibly, "…and my debt is repaid."

"As you wish. Access to the wizard Dalamar, granted." Nuitari handed Raistlin a small orb of magic. "Simply speak into the orb, and you will be able to speak to Dalamar."

"Thank you, Great One," Raistlin murmured, turning the magical sphere round and round in his fingers. Closing his fist around it, he looked up at the dark god of magic, a strange smile gracing his lips. It contained none of its usual guile, but was almost genuine. "My lord," he said softly, "you knew that my salvation is impossible if I do not accept the assistance of my brother. Why did you offer it?"

"One does what one must," Nuitari replied. After a moment's hesitation, he reached out and placed an icy hand upon Raistlin's shoulder. "You carry my blessing, Raistlin Majere. I have never before indulged in such a frivolous practice, so consider yourself lucky." The dark god eyed his servant for a moment, then ever so slightly inclined his head. "The world owes you much. It is truly too bad that you did everything in the name of your own ambition."

"I care nothing for the world," Raistlin grumbled. "All it ever did was pain me." With one last bow, he turned and shuffled off to begin his arduous task.

Nuitari watched him go. Solinari and Lunitari drifted over to stand beside him.

"How can we trust him to do as he says?" Solinari asked quietly, his wary eyes following the mage's retreating form.

"Because he is our only hope," Nuitari replied. "We cannot run the risk of undertaking this task ourselves. Queen Takhisis must never know of our involvement."

"Why not?" Lunitari gave him a dubious look. "We have always openly opposed her in the past. Why should this time be any different?"

"Because there are those that still depend on us," the dark god said simply. "The Dark Temptress will not take lightly to our meddling. We can only stand back and watch from the sidelines, giving what aid we can to those on the battlefield."

They fell silent for a time. Raistlin vanished in a cloud of mist.

"Do you think he can do it?" Solinari asked finally.

Nuitari appeared thoughtful. Then, nodding his head, he said, "Yes, dear Cousin. I know he can do it. The only question is whether or not he will abandon the path he has always walked in the past to save that which he loves."

"His brother," his cousins said together.

Nuitari smiled to himself. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. There might be something more – a bond stronger than that of brother to brother." That will ultimately determine our fate, he added silently, and said nothing more.

Tika finally threw down her bar rag, her fiery red curls bouncing indignantly as she watched the sun set over the horizon. It had been hours, and Caramon had still not returned from fetching the book. Dalamar was starting to grow impatient. The dark elf paced restlessly, casting dark glances out the window, as if he could somehow search out Caramon Majere. Finally unable to take it any longer, he slammed his fist down on the bar, startling several guests and making Senan jump clear out of her chair.

"What in the Abyss is taking so long?" he thundered.

"I don't know," Tika answered for what must have been the eighth time in the last twenty minutes. "The dolt. He probably got sidetracked somehow. Must have seen something on the house that needed immediate attention. Either that or he's still lollygagging around that room he built for his brother. Old habits die hard." She scowled at the thought.

"I don't have time for this," Dalamar raged, his angry footsteps scaring half the customers out the door.

"Perhaps one of us should go look for him?" Senan ventured, clasping the medallion she wore around her neck.

"A wonderful idea," Tika said hastily. Drying her hands on her apron, she hurried toward the door. "Revered Daughter, if I could ask a favor?"

"Of course," said Senan, slipping to her feet. "What is it?"

"Could you watch the Inn for me while I'm gone? I'll only be a minute."

"I would be honored to be left in the care of such a beautiful place," the girl replied with a slight bow of her head.

"Thank you so much," Tika gushed. "I'll be right back." With that, she rushed out of sight.

Senan rounded on Dalamar. "You should be more considerate. All your banging and grumbling will accomplish nothing except worry the poor girl to death," she scolded Dalamar.

The dark elf snorted and continued to pace, disregarding her words as he would brush away a pestering fly.

Senan shivered suddenly. "This does not bode well," she said softly, turning her gaze to peer through the window.

"You are imagining things," Dalamar said gruffly. "The man is simply in no rush to come back to me with the news."

"I doubt he would stall this long," Senan returned. "He is a man of honor, unlike some--"

Her gibe was cut short by a ear-splitting scream that shattered the peace of the growing twilight. Dalamar reacted quickly, muttering words of magic that would take him directly to the source of the noise. Before he could disappear, Senan sprinted over and grabbed his sleeve, letting herself be transported along with him.

When they reappeared, Senan had to regain her balance, trying to convince herself not to throw up. Dalamar, however, was on his feet and striding toward Tasslehoff's room, his mouth set in a grim line. The cleric tried to follow, but she could only stumble about drunkenly. Through sheer determination, she tugged her dizzy feet in the right direction.

Dalamar reached the room and stopped short. His perfect lips parted, and he let out a strangled cry.

Tika had sunk to the floor, cradling her unconscious husband's head in her freckled arms. Caramon's eyes were wide and staring, never blinking, never moving, as though he were dead. Tika's tears dripped onto his face as she kissed him over and over, softly calling his name over and over as she held him close.

"What happened?" she asked the dark elf, not looking up. Her voice was deadly calm despite her tears. Calm as the grave. "Tell me. What is going on?"

"I…I do not…" Dalamar stammered, his dark eyes wide. In reality, he did know. He recognized the gem clutched in Caramon's hand all too well. Many times he had seen it in his _Shalafi's_ notes, detailing the cursed necklace's purpose and horrors. But he could not very well relate this to Tika, who would probably just make matters worse. Dalamar snapped his mouth shut and forced himself to walk stiffly over to where Caramon lay. Kneeling down, he reached out seemingly to try and pry the gem from the fainted man's hand, when in reality, all he knew he could do was get a closer look.

"What's that?" Tika asked, watching the dark elf's delicate fingers attempting to loosen her husband's hold. She craned her neck to see, her red curls tumbling over Caramon's hand.

"Move away. I cannot see through your infernal mass of hair," Dalamar snarled. Irritably brushing her away, he confirmed his suspicions. Grimacing slightly, he stood up, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robes.

"Well?" Tika demanded, voice raising at last. "Can you do anything for him?"

"I am afraid I cannot," said Dalamar, his face carefully emotionless. "True, this mysterious illness was caused by magic. However, I cannot say more than that."

"Either that or you won't," Tika said bitterly, turning her face back to her husband.

Dalamar gave a coy bow. "I should not like to upset you any more, even if I did have a hunch of some sort."

"What…what…" Senan clung to the polished door frame, green eyes round and staring as she fought to regain some sort of balance.

"Revered Daughter!" Tika exclaimed. "Please, I need your help and healing powers. My husband has fallen ill and I don't know what to--"

"There is nothing the girl can do," Dalamar interrupted testily. "For the time being, there is nothing anyone can do except hoist him into bed."

Tika nodded stiffly, hooking gentle hands under the big warrior's arms and feebly trying to lift him. Caramon's head lolled to the side, but he still kept fast hold of the amulet. Seeing this, Dalamar frowned, then strode over to help heft the enormous man into Tasslehoff's bed. Between the two of them, Tika and the dark elf managed to plop him onto the quilt covered mattress.

"He…he _will_ be alright, won't he, Dalamar?" Tika asked softly, brushing her husband's curly brown hair out of his pale face.

"I do not know," the dark elf replied, his eyes not on the man's face but on his tightly clenched hand. "We shall see."

"Are you sure my healing powers can't help him?" Senan asked tentatively, taking a few steps forward. Her soft footsteps seemed loud in the eerily quiet room. When the black robed mage did not answer, she started to repeat herself, only to have him whirl on her with wild eyes.

"What did you say?" Dalamar demanded.

Taken aback, Senan edged slightly away from him. "I…I asked if…if you're sure my clerical powers won't…"

"No, not that!" the mage snapped. "You called my name."

She blinked. "No," she said slowly, "no I didn't."

"Do not play with me. I am not deaf," he snarled. "I know what I heard; someone called my name!"

"Dalamar, no one called you." Tika regarded the elf worriedly, looking up from her place on the bed where she sat cradling her husband's limp body.

The mage returned her gaze furiously. "I do not like being mocked," he raged. "I know what I heard, and I – see, there it is again!" Whirling, he whipped his head this way and that.

"I don't hear anything," said Senan, peering around as well.

"Neither do I," Tika muttered, giving Dalamar a disapproving glance.

Suddenly Dalamar stopped thrashing and stood still, his eyes turned inward. The women looked at each other uneasily, Tika shifting under her husband's weight, Senan nervously averting her eyes to stare off into a corner.

"Yes, _Shalafi_," the dark elf murmured abruptly, closing his eyes. "I am here."

Senan cast a look at Tika, to find that her hostess's face had gone porcelain pale. "What's wrong?" the cleric whispered, slipping down to kneel at the bedside.

"R…Raistlin!" Tika gasped. "But it can't be! He was sealed away in the Abyss!"

"Raistlin?" Senan started. "As in…Raistlin Majere?"

"None other," the red head muttered.

Dalamar turned back to them, a strange look on his elven face. "Forgive me," he said softly. "For a moment, I thought I heard my _Shalafi's_ voice. It appears I was mistaken." He pressed a delicate hand to his temple, almost as if he had a headache; but his eyes remained clear and bright, undulled by pain. "If you will excuse me, I must retire to a room. If you could provide me with a number…"

"Er…room seven," Tika said stiffly. "The keys are behind the bar on the rack."

"Thank you." With a swift, vacant nod, Dalamar departed through the corridors of magic.

When the elf had gone, Senan turned back to Tika. "You don't suppose he's…mad, do you?" she asked worriedly.

"Mages are always a bit mad if you ask me," Tika snorted. "And that was the biggest load of ogre vomit that I've ever heard. No one says 'yes, I am here' if they're hearing things. Maybe something along the lines of 'who's talking to me' or 'are you saying something to me', but not something that specific."

"I suppose not," Senan said dubiously. "Do you want me to go find out?"

"He will no more tell you than his _Shalafi_ will come back to life," Tika sniffed, her hand absently stroking her husband's cheek. "Better if you go in stealth. There's a small hole in the closet of that room. If you go into room eight and stand by the east wall, you'll be able to see and hear everything that goes on."

Senan smiled knowingly. "The tales about your quick mind do not lie, Tika Waylan Majere," she chuckled. "I suppose you did not give him that room idly."

"No," Tika said gravely. "But I really wish I had. If…" Her voice broke, but she cleared her throat and went on. "If he says anything about my husband's…condition…make sure you remember it, alright?"

"Of course," the cleric promised, taking the woman's hand and giving it a squeeze.

Dalamar didn't even bother to take the key off the hook. Instead, he simply muttered a spell under his breath, and, upon hearing the lock click open, entered the room. He quickly shut the door behind him, placing a hasty wizard's lock upon the heavy wooden door.

"_Shalafi_?" he asked aloud as he sank into the leather chair by the bed. His heart pounded with excitement.

_I am here._

"How? You were confined to the Abyss! How is this possible?"

A faint, raspy chuckle echoed through the dark elf's mind. _You should have learned long ago that anything is possible if you have the will to make it so. As it were, I was…released, under interesting circumstances._

"Such as…?"

_As you have noticed, my dear brother has fallen victim to one quite familiar to us both. And as such, he is no longer able to hold me to a peaceful death._

"I…I see," Dalamar stammered. "But…I was under the impression that you were to be tortured for all eternity as the Dark Queen's--"

_I was vindicated_, Raistlin cut his apprentice off hotly. _Or pardoned, if you will. My brother's goodness of heart and my sacrifice were enough to ward the Dark Queen away…for a time. Now that my dear brother is no longer conscious, I must flee the Dark Queen and attempt to redeem him from the clutches into which he has fallen._

"Fistandantilus," Dalamar murmured.

_Precisely._

"But how? The archmage only targets those of magical power--"

_Do not ask such fool questions! Have you any doubt whose pendant that is? If so, you are as bumbling as my brother!_

Dalamar fell into brooding silence.

_I have spoken with the god Nuitari_, Raistlin went on, his disembodied voice once more resuming a semblance of calm. _The weight of the world rests heavily on our shoulders. I want you to listen to everything I am going to tell you, and I want you to follow my instructions without question._

"But what of the gods of good?" the dark elf ventured. "Why do they skulk about, not offering any help to those who need them?"

_The gods of magic strive to keep this matter hidden. As it were, Fistandantilus is the result of a magical mishap sparked by the Dark Queen. He possesses the one artifact that is beyond our beloved gods' control. The mistake was their own, and they are ready to take full responsibility for it._

"If that is in fact the case, why do they themselves sit back and let us do their dirty work?"

_They do not wish to draw the attention of their parents and the other gods. In this time of delicate, fragile faith, the gods cannot afford a war among their own. There are other matters that have arisen, and the gods of magic desire to fulfill this mission on their own. Now, if you are through asking questions, I would like to continue._

"Yes, _Shalafi_," Dalamar murmured. "Speak. I am yours to command." He felt a warm surge of magic flow through his veins, and he reveled in its grip. The _Shalafi _was pleased.

_The information I have gathered is as follows. Though the wretch has taken what he needs from my magical reserves, Fistandantilus still requires a substantial amount of time to fully inhabit a body that is not gifted with the Art. He will not have to wait long – a week, at the very most. In that time, I must reenter the world in a physical body._

"Impossible!" gasped the dark elf. Slipping unconsciously to his feet, he began to pace the length of the candlelit room. "I am no necromancer, nor have I ever had the misfortune of encountering one. And even if I were a master of the dead, I would only be able to raise your body from the sleep of death, not your soul."

_Did I not just tell you not to question!_ A magical hand slapped Dalamar across the face, making him reel. Sinking back into the soft leather chair, the elf massaged his cheek.

"Forgive me, _Shalafi_," he mumbled, bowing his head in acquiesce. "Please, go on. I will not interrupt."

_About time,_ Raistlin said dryly. _You picked up that book Caramon fetched for you, did you not?_

Dalamar snorted. "Of course I picked it up. Of how much use it can be, however, is a different matter." Reaching into the folds of his robes, the dark mage withdrew the tattered volume labeled _The Art of Divination_. Turning it over in his hands, he tossed it onto the bed with disgust. "It is no more than a gypsy's book of tricks."

_Perhaps it is so to those who thinks things are always what they seem. _Raistlin's voice, whispering and cracked even from the depths of the Abyss, oozed contempt at his servant's ineptitude. _Open it._

Now eyeing the worn leather book with a bit more caution, the dark elf hesitated.

_Do it!_

Trembling fingers caught up the ancient volume. Dalamar was about to open it, when he heard his _Shalafi_ speaking the spidery language of magic in the depths of his mind. The book glowed, the gold inlaid title shimmering brightly in the light of the spell. Soon, the book's cover had changed completely. Where it had once read _The Art of Divination_, it now read _Beyond the Grave: A Further Step into Necromancy. _Once more Dalamar dropped the book onto the floor, this time recoiling in horror rather than disgust.

_Peace, my apprentice. I assure you that magic I have performed in the past delved far deeper into the Dark Arts than this simple spellbook. Now open it, as I instructed._

"What page?" Dalamar inquired, still eyeing the book warily.

_If you are afraid, perhaps I should turn instead to that cleric hiding in the next room._

"What!" the dark elf flicked his eyes across the room. "Where?"

_Through the hole in the closet, dolt! No, don't look. She should consider herself safe…for the time being. _Suddenly the book flew out of Dalamar's hands and thunked onto the hardwood floor, its pages fluttering in the wind of its fall. The leaves of paper began to flow across one another in an eerie dance, settling slowly on page 659. Bending over, Dalamar read the title of the spell that had surfaced.

" '_Return of the Restless'_," he read aloud, his dry lips barely able to form the words. "_Shalafi,_ you cannot be serious…"

_I am quite serious, my dear Dalamar. If I must return to this wretched world through the darkest of necromancy to save my brother and repay my debt…so be it. I have many wrongs for which to account._

"Yes, _Shalafi._ But I do not know if even I can accomplish this," the dark elf said uneasily, his void-like eyes sweeping rapidly over the intricate incantation and lengthy components.

_I have no doubt that you cannot. Therefore, I must help you._

"How?"

_Lift your face to the heavens._

Dalamar complied. Immediately a surge of magic entered his veins, coursing through him like a lover's ecstasy, sending every nerve in his body tingling with excitement. He gasped, watching in wonder as the magic danced about his fingertips.

_Now, for a time, you possess a great portion of the magic I held in life. Even so, I fear this spell might drain your reserves to the point of exhaustion. You must be prepared to fight for the magic until the very end._

The dark elf clenched his fists, feeling the power course through his hands. An ecstatic smile crept across his lips. "I am prepared, _Shalafi_. I will not fail you."

_I hope not, my dear apprentice. Time grows short, and there is so very much to do. Fetch the cleric. She will be needed for this particular spell._

"What?" Dalamar frowned, the satisfied grin fading from his face. "Why do we need a cleric of Paladine? It does not say here that we need--"

_That book was written before the Cataclysm, when the arcane arts flowed freely from the three gods of magic. It was written before the Wizards of the Conclave placed the restrictions upon the portal between this realm and the next._

"But that is the Portal, not a necromancy spell!"

_If you keep referring to this incantation as a spell of necromancy, then you are a bigger fool than I could ever have imagined. The laws of the Portal apply to every point of entry, else the Dark Queen break through somewhere a meeting between a dark wizard and a cleric of the light would be more common. It was not likely that another hole in space and time would be created aside from the Portals, but our need is most dire._

"My head reels," the mage muttered, pressing his middle finger to his temple.

_No time for that, my apprentice. Request the help of the cleric and bring her back to the Tower. The spell components you need will be there. I will be waiting, Dalamar. Do not fail me._

Dalamar bowed his head. "I will not."

Then the essence left, leaving the dark elf to himself in the confines of the small room. Sighing, he got to his feet and strode purposefully toward the closet. As he approached, he could just make out the small hole about the size of a kender's fist that was punched through the middle of the wall. He smirked, then rapped his knuckles against the wood.

"I would like to talk to you, Revered Daughter. You needn't hide anymore." His grin grew wider in satisfaction as he heard the girl bump her head against the door of the closet in surprise. Hurried footsteps sounded, and a shy knock came at his door.

"Come in," he ordered impatiently, adding a sarcastic, "I am already expecting you."

Having been released from the wizard's lock, the knob turned easily under the girl's shaking fingers. She walked into the room, her head bowed in shame, her cheeks flushed a rosy red.

"Forgive me," she mumbled, not meeting his eyes. "I only wanted to know what was going on."

"Spare me," he sneered. "The only reason I do not transform you into a newt for spying on me is because I require your assistance."

Her eyes flicked nervously over his face. "My…my assistance?"

Dalamar rolled his eyes to heaven in exasperation. He did not have much patience for humans, especially those who walked so blindly in the light. "That is what I said, is it not?" he retorted icily, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his robes. "I take it you have heard most of the predicament. Well, my part, at least. I find it highly doubtful you heard the voice of my _Shalafi_."

"Y…yes," she stuttered, turning a deeper shade of pink. "Um, actually…"

"What?" he demanded, frustrated with the girl's halting manner.

"Iheardhisvoicetoo," she rushed, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair.

The dark elf stared. Then he laughed – a harsh, grating laugh that held no mirth and resounded eerily off the living walls of the vallenwood.

"Impossible," he chortled, eyeing her with disgusted amusement, his lips curling into a sneer. "The _Shalafi_ spoke only to me through telepathy."

Senan drew herself up a little straighter, forcing herself to meet his scornful gaze. "I heard him," she said evenly, willing herself not to blink. "I heard his plans. I heard what he wanted you to do. And I will help you." Her fingers traveled to the platinum medallion that had been a gift from her mentor. "I can feel Paladine's gentle hand guiding me, his loving voice telling me that this is right," she added softly.

Dalamar frowned. Something about the last bit she had said sounded wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he was sure it was there. After chasing the thought around in his head for a moment, he gave up and let it slide.

"Very well. I must request that you accompany me to the Tower of High Sorcery. There we will find the spell components necessary to complete the spell." The mage reached out to take her arm, preparing in his mind the words of magic that would transport them back to Palanthas.

"Must we leave immediately?" Senan asked, casting a worried glance toward the Majeres' house. Her arm slipped just out of his reach as she nervously tugged at her robes.

"I am afraid so. We do not have the time for meaningless goodbyes." He impatiently made another grab for her arm, but she pulled it out of his way. "Hold still!"

"I want to say goodbye to Tika," she said stubbornly, planting her feet and folding her arms. "I want to tell her that help is on the way."

"Help will only come if we can complete the spell in time!" Dalamar nearly screeched. "Come on!" Gripping her painfully around the wrist, the dark elf spoke the spidery words and sent them tumbling through time and space. Senan shrieked and grasped at him wildly, burying her face in his shoulder to avoid the swirling images that leapt up around them.

For a moment, the mage almost faltered. Her soft, lithe body pressed tightly against him, and the fragrance of her hair tingled his senses like a bright summer day, making him dizzier than any magic spell. He shook his head violently and concentrated once more on the magic, trying to forget that his blood had stirred into a simmer beneath his porcelain flesh.

The corridors of the wizards deposited the pair gently in Dalamar's laboratory. Feeling solid stone beneath her feet at last, Senan breathed a deep sigh of relief, vaguely aware that it had smelled faintly of ash.

"We are here," Dalamar stated gruffly. "You can let go."

"Oh!" Senan pulled her hands away, nearly ripping the fabric from the dark elf's shoulder's in the process. She stared her fingertips as if they had acted on their own, then clasped them tightly behind her. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"No harm done," he muttered. Turning on his heel, he strode to the table in the middle of the room. Fashioned from a huge slab of rose quartz, the table was nearly seven feet long and four feet wide, its sides inlaid with golden runes. It had been a gift to Dalamar from one of his apprentices, who had long since moved out. It was at this table that he seated himself, flipping open the ancient text to the right page. Running his fingertip down the lines of magical runes, his feathery eyebrows arched slightly, then a light frown creased his brow.

"This is certainly the most unusual set of ingredients I have ever seen," he murmured, not looking up. He was still acutely aware of the burning in his chest, still able to feel her hips pressed so very close… Pursing his lips, he forced her out of his mind. "Bring me that stand of chemicals behind you," he commanded, waving his hand in their general direction. "And grab that large bag of components from that shelf, the ones beside the skull." Opening a drawer carved into the quartz, he pulled out a small, glass hourglass and put it on the desk, studying it with a scrutinizing eye.

"This lab is amazing," Senan murmured, staring around in awe. She gathered up the components and carried them to Dalamar, setting them neatly on the table in front of him. This done, she crossed the bare stone floor to examine the draconian skeleton that had been arranged and pegged to the wall. Her eyes scanned the bones not in horror, but in fascination. "Truly amazing," she repeated softly, her finger tracing the thick femur of the dead draconian.

The dark mage briefly looked up from his work, a faint smile upon his lips. "There are few that would call it amazing, and I am surprised to find you as one of them."

"I always pictured evil as being a lot more grotesque," Senan continued, either not hearing his comment or choosing to ignore it. "This seems almost…scientific." Turning away from the skeleton, she backed up to admire the rows upon rows of spellbooks that lined the walls.

"Even the powers of darkness grow curious," Dalamar chuckled, going back to laying out various components in a row in front of him. "If anyone ever took the time to look back into history, they would find that the Black Robes have made far more advances in the arcane arts than any other Order. No one ever sees the good things, though. The good things aren't interesting enough." He dusted bits of lint from a chunk of raw silver he had taken from the pouch.

"I suppose not." Idly fingering her medallion, she headed back over to stand beside the dark mage, who pointedly kept his gaze fixed on his work. She regarded the components with interest, eyes flicking over the neat rows of herbs, precious metals, and powders. "So…what do I need to do to help you cast this spell?"

"I am not entirely sure," said the dark elf, his finger skimming once more down the list of supplies. "But I am sure my _Shalafi_ will tell me when I have readied the components."

"Why so late? I want to be ready."

"The _Shalafi_ has strange ways, Revered Daughter." Satisfied that he had every component, he began to measure them with tiny golden spoons and a set of silver scales. "We cannot question. We can only trust."

Watching him measure out a quantity of a foul-smelling root, Senan nodded reluctantly, like a child who has been told she must wait to open her Yule gifts. "I suppose. Is…there anything I can help you with?"

"No."

"Oh. Alright…" She perched herself on a stool that stood by the desk, snaking her feet around the legs to keep herself from swinging them in her impatience. A few minutes rolled by, the only sound the incessant drip of the waterclock and the occasional clink of golden spoons. Senan occupied herself with looking around the room, taking in as much of the fascinating sight as possible.

Another half hour passed in silence. Every once in a while, Senan would clear her throat and look pointedly at the mage; but he was too wrapped up in his work to notice. She saw that his lips formed the names of the components as he measured them into precise amounts, the strange arcane words sounding breathy through his open mouth. He is used to working alone, she realized, giving him a pitying look. No more silence. I can't take it.

"So…" she ventured. "What is your _Shalafi _like? I know the stories, but I would like to hear the opinion of one who knew him personally."

Dalamar paused, halting the flow of a vial into a beaker for a moment. Then he put it down and looked up at her, lips pursed. "The _Shalafi_ was exactly as he is portrayed by the legends," he said finally. "Sly, uncaring, hateful, and ambitious to the point of his own destruction." Picking up the vial, he poured the rest of the prescribed amount into the beaker and plugged the mouth with a rubber stopper.

"I don't want to hear what he was like in the legends. I told you I knew that. Answer me truly; don't evade the question. I know you think there is something more than what the world perceives."

"I cannot deny your words," the mage said softly. Rubbing a wetted finger in a fine white powder, he began to trace arcane symbols onto the cool, quartz surface. "I do believe there was more to the _Shalafi_ than the legends say. Indeed, as I said before, Raistlin Majere was a man driven by desire for power. But fueling that desire…festering in wounds so deep they never showed…was pain. Jealousy. Envy. Years of scrutiny. All hidden beneath a mask of bitterness that became his true face all to quickly." He glanced up to find the look of pity he had seen on the face of two others. His delicate features twisted into a grimace.

"Wipe that look of pity off your face. It is unwanted," he snarled, echoing the words he heard his master speak in his mind.

"I will wear whatever look I want," Senan returned, eyes flaring. Then her expression softened. "Do you suppose Raistlin is coming back for the sake of Lady Crysania?" she murmured quietly. "Oh, I do hope so…"

Dalamar frowned into the vial of nightshade. Shalafi, he called mentally, did you not clearly state your purpose for returning to the world in our previous conversation?

__

I did.

Then what is she talking about? Dalamar demanded, studying the girl.

__

Perhaps she was not listening as intently as she had imagined.

Doubtful, the dark elf replied. She seemed to have memorized your every word.

__

Indeed, Raistlin remarked coldly. _In any case, it does not matter. Let us proceed with the spell._

Dalamar nodded. "Senan," he interrupted her wishful thoughts. "I…_we_, I should say…are ready to begin."

The girl nearly catapulted herself off her stool in excitement. "Finally!" she exclaimed, moving to stand in front of the desk.

__

Have her stand with her hands placed palms-up on the nightshade.

Dalamar nodded, looking up in case Senan needed to be shown which herb was which. When she did not move, he cleared his throat impatiently, making her jump.

"What?" she asked, shifting under his gaze.

"What are you waiting for?" the mage demanded.

"Instructions!"

"They were already given, foolish girl!"

"By whom?"

Dalamar's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't tell me you didn't hear the instructions, my good little listener," he said menacingly, the candlelight glinting and dancing through his dark irises. "You heard the _Shalafi_'s voice before."

"He wasn't speaking!"

The dark elf threw up his hands in exasperation. "Fine! Just place your hands face-up on the nightshade and await my directions."

Frowning, Senan did as she was told, her mouth set in a grim, indignant line.

What do I do now, _Shalafi_? Dalamar asked silently, closing his eyes.

__

Light the candle of beeswax and lilac. Use it to melt away the top of the hourglass.

The mage nodded, uttering a quick word of magic to cast a hot flame upon the wick of the candle. The sweet scent of lilac permeated the stifling room. Lifting the hourglass with the tips of two slender fingers, Dalamar held it over the magical blue flame, watching as the brass base melted away and dripped into the flame, hissing and crackling. Soon the entire base was gone, leaving only the thin glass of the timepiece, its ends curling slightly from the heat. He pulled it away from the heat, blowing gently upon the heated glass to help it cool.

__

Good. Now set it upside down in the center of the arcane symbol for Nuitari.

Dalamar obeyed, overturning the base-less hourglass inside the symbol. The sands of the timepiece, made to count out a short fifteen minutes, began to flow. Small white grains sprinkled onto the table and turned black.

Until that point, the cleric had been watching intently, her set mouth parting just a bit to allow a small gasp of wonder when the candle seemingly lit itself. Now, she let out a startled cry as black smoke rose from the fallen sand like a wraith. Her round eyes saw the smoke twist and writhe, almost as if it were alive. The nightshade beneath the backs of her hands began to burn and glow. With another yelp, she started to draw her hands away.

"No!" Dalamar caught her wrists, forcing her to remain as she was. "The spell is beginning," he hissed.

Senan wildly looked up at him, the fear in her emerald eyes constricting his heart. He almost hesitated; almost let her pull away.

Almost.

"Stay put," he commanded, turning back to the table. She did not move – nor did she think she could have, even had she wanted to do so. Letting her eyes train themselves once again upon the table, she held her breath to keep from crying out as the nightshade burned ever hotter.

Now what? Dalamar inquired, purposefully keeping his eyes set upon his work. He had almost weakened once. He would not let it happen again.

Raistlin did not answer right away. For a fleeting moment, the dark elf thought with a wild panic that the connection had somehow been severed – that he was on his own. Frantically he called again.

__

Patience, came the reply at last. Dalamar could not suppress an immense sigh of relief. Raistlin's knife-edged chuckle hissed through his apprentice's mind. _You disappoint me, Dalamar the Dark. I would have thought you had a bit more faith in me._

"I do, _Shalafi_," the dark elf murmured aloud, his eyes still closed in concentration. As such, he did not see Senan's startled glance. "Forgive me." His delicate hand traveled absently to his chest, where five oozing, bleeding holes still remained.

__

All is well. More sand fell to the table, and the black smoke began to filter out from beneath the overturned hourglass. The other spell components began to glow with the same eerie light as the nightshade.

Senan gulped and squeezed her eyes shut.

__

It is time. Apprentice, I want you to speak the words with me.

"How?"

__

Read them.

Fiery words appeared, suspended in the air before the dark elf's face. The feathery runes arced across his line of sight, obliterating everything around them to draw on his full attention. Swallowing hard and praying to every god that he would not make some sort of mistake, Dalamar began to read.

__

An unfinished duty

Awakens the dead

An endless expanse

Still winds on ahead.

A whisper of life

Calls them down from above;

From the throes of ambition

To the sweetness of love.

They owe a great debt

To the world they once knew

One that must be repaid;

Their repentance is due.

But they must heed the warning-

For life flickers and dies

They must never forget

Lest their truth become lies.

No thing is eternal

No embrace is forever

No man is immortal

No god is that clever.

So finish the duty

You so desperately crave

Fulfill now your wishes

Then return to the grave.

As he spoke, Dalamar could hear his master speaking with him. Their voices entwined – became one as the magic welded and sealed them together. Senan's eyes were lifted to heaven, and it seemed as if she were mouthing the words as well, though there was no way she could have known them. Dalamar felt the ecstasy of his craft engulf him, and he reveled in its burning touch. The quartz table appeared to catch fire as the last grain of sand fell from the hourglass. The inferno engulfed the two standing beside it, racing along the runes the dark elf had traced upon it with the white powder. Soon the entire room was awash with the magical firelight.

"It…is…finished!" Dalamar shouted above the blaze. Acting sheerly on magical instinct, the dark mage brought his hand crashing down upon the hourglass that stood in the middle of the table. The other brass base had melted away, and the fragile glass shattered under his blow. Blood dripped from his fingers and palm, running out to encase the shimmering shards, congealing around it as if to capture the very essence of the timepiece within its crimson grasp.

The dark elf reeled as if he had been struck. His heartbeat seemed to multiply as it pounded in his head. Clutching his temples with bloodies hands, Dalamar sank to his knees, sweet darkness coming to take him away to rest. As he closed his eyes, he could barely see the Staff of Magius materialize within the fire, held tight by a porcelain white hand that somehow seemed tinged with gold.


	5. A Long Journey Begins

A searing pain in her head awoke the unconscious cleric. Senan groaned, squeezing her eyes tighter against the infernal light that was trying to seep through her long lashes. She could already tell from the nausea that gripped her stomach that she was going to be extremely dizzy upon opening her eyes. Grimacing, she kept herself in the comforting darkness.

Then a warm, slender hand touched her forehead, smoothing back the matted red locks. The skin was soft as a flower petal and smelled vaguely as such; the sweet aroma of roses wafted to her nose. At its touch, the painful throbbing in her head lessened, then disappeared. Lines of pain and fatigue erased themselves from her smooth brow, and she opened her eyes, blinking in the sudden light.

"Lady Crysania…?" she ventured, wondering if the healing power she had just experienced had come from the blessed hands of her mentor.

"No," said a soft voice. "Though I wish it were." The hand pulled away from her forehead. Senan missed its warmth immediately; the room seemed cold without it. Lifting her head to see its owner, she gasped.

A man with snow-white skin that shimmered with a faint, golden hue lay on his back upon the quartz table. The slight, delicate face was framed by a wavy mane of jet black hair, which gleamed like fire in the flickering light. Hollow green eyes the color of moss stared at her, unblinking, in the candlelight. Leaning closer, the cleric could see that the pupils were the shape of hourglasses.

Senan scuttled backwards. "Y…you're Raistlin Majere!" she cried, eyes wide in terror.

"And you were expecting…whom?" Raistlin asked caustically, his voice low and mocking. Lacking the strength to sit up, he sneered at her from his place on the table.

"I…you…the elf…" Senan fumbled for words, but none came. Frantic gestures to the mage's appearance conveyed her meaning much better than her stumbling attempt at speaking.

"I know I am different," Raistlin said simply. "But in all honesty, what else can you expect? This body is composed of herbs and precious metals, not of flesh and bone." His scrutinizing gaze swept her over, making her shiver and draw her robes tighter around her lithe body. He grinned ruefully. "It seems that this body serves me better than my own, apparently," he murmured. "It just goes to show that nature wins out where man falls short."

"W…what do you mean?" the cleric asked meekly, her own green eyes trained on the floor.

"It means that I have at last made an impression that does not reek of fear and discrimination," the mage replied, gripping the Staff of Magius roughly in his left hand. "And that only with the help of others."

"I…I'm sorry…?"

"Don't be," he returned harshly. He reached out his right hand. "Help me sit up. I have many questions I need answered."

Senan hesitated. In all the stories she had heard about the infamous Raistlin Majere, he had had stunning golden eyes and skin, with a mantle of prematurely white hair cascading from a coal-colored cowl. The man who sat before her was dressed in a simple white smock that flowed in ragged waves to his ankles. His skin was like that of a porcelain doll – white, smooth, and glassy. Dull green eyes replaced myth's gold ones, and black hair hung in a thick mane where there should only have been a covering of white.

What if it's not him? What if he's lying? Senan wondered suddenly, moving a little further away. Raistlin frowned, letting his hand fall back to his side.

"Don't tell me you are afraid," he snarled, ivory teeth clicking together menacingly.

Senan shook her head. "I am not afraid," she said softly, meeting his eyes. "I just do not know if I should believe you. You look so much different than the stories…"

"Some stories of Huma portray him as a giant of over 18 feet, and others swear he is a fallen god," Raistlin retorted. "Tales are not something on which to place your beliefs."

"I suppose you are right." The girl sighed. "Dalamar certainly seemed to think it was you."

Their eyes traveled to the dark elf, who lay crumpled on the floor beside the table. Senan grasped her medallion, murmuring a prayer. Raistlin rolled his eyes, trying not to think of how much this young girl reminded him of someone else.

Finishing her prayer, Senan looked up once more. "Is…is it true that you see death?" she ventured.

"I would not call it seeing death, Revered Daughter. It is more like seeing life as it truly is." The mage pressed his slender fingers to his forehead, shutting his eyes. "However, in this body of spice and stone, time seems to stand still. I see the world as I was meant to see it – an illusion of the dream of youth."

"I see." The cleric slowly crawled back to the table and pulled herself to her knees. Taking the man's fragile hand and slipping her arm behind his back, she helped him sit up. He was light as a feather, and she found herself worrying that she would somehow snap his delicate spine in two.

"Thank you." The mage leaned heavily upon her arm, his head lolling to rest on her shoulder. At her sharp intake of breath, he smiled grimly. "Forgive me. I am not strong enough to hold my head upright."

"N…no, n-not at all," she stammered. His wavy black hair smelled strongly of crushed poisonberries mingled with dried rose petals. The aroma was tantalizingly alluring, resulting in her strangled gasp. Raistlin had misinterpreted it, thinking it an expression of disgust; ashamed, she was in no hurry to correct him.

After a few moments' silence, Raistlin shifted feebly in her arms, turning his evergreen eyes upon her rosy face. "So tell me. When exactly did my brother collapse?"

"Um, just a little over a day ago," she replied. "He went to his house to get a book for Dalamar, and he took a long time, so Tika went to look for him. Dalamar and I stayed in the common room of the Inn to wait for her. We heard her scream, and…" she trailed off.

"It has been more than a single day, Revered Daughter," the mage said tersely. "I have heard the water clock drip away the hours after your collapse. I had dared to hope that you had come here faster after my brother fell. But if you believe what you said, then at least three days have passed since it happened." He struggled to sit up on his own. "Wake Dalamar. We must act quickly!"

"But…but you're too weak!" she protested, trying to draw him back against her. She was strangely loathe to let him go.

Despite his weakness, his head whipped around to face her. The emeralds looked as if they had caught fire. "Never….NEVER…say I am too weak!" he hissed. He feebly shoved her hands away, forcing himself to swing his legs over the side of the table. "Do as I say! Wake the elf!"

Senan was about to raise a final protest, but, seeing the look on his face, she chose to remain silent. Slipping to her feet, she padded over to the dark elf, shaking him with a gentle hand. "Dalamar," she called softly. "Wake up."

His dark eyes fluttered open, then shut tight again as he groaned in pain. He rolled from his side to his stomach, clutching his head between clawlike hands. A ragged cry escaped his lips.

"Dalamar!" Senan grasped the elf's strong shoulders. "Please! Raistlin is awake! We have lost a lot of time!"

"The pain…too much…" Dalamar curled into a ball, his knees tucked under him, his elbows on the stone floor. "I can't bear it! Make it go away!"

Senan looked helplessly back at Raistlin, who was trying with all his might to stand up. "Can you help him as you helped me?" she demanded.

Raistlin had barely convinced his legs into a kneeling position before he collapsed. He sprawled on the floor beside the quartz table, teeth bared dangerously. He threw the cleric a furious look. "If you are willing to bring him to me," he snarled, "then I will be more than happy to ease his pain."

Without hesitation, Senan squatted beside Dalamar, taking the elf under the arms and attempting to drag him across the room. He writhed in her grasp, thrashing his legs and arching his back as he desperately tried to control his pain. But after several more minutes of wrestling with the dark mage, Senan finally managed to pull him over to where Raistlin lay.

"You are a fool," he sneered, reaching out to place his hand upon his apprentice's sweaty brow. Immediately the elf stopped squirming, and the lines of pain slowly faded away. Opening one eye, then the other, he blinked in the candlelight. Then he saw Raistlin.

"_Shalafi_!" he cried, quickly lowering his head in respect.

Raistlin didn't answer. He was leaning back against the leg of the table, his breath coming in labored gasps. Senan offered him her arm, but he declined with a sharp shake of his black-maned head. He motioned for Dalamar, who came a little closer to hear what he had to say.

"Three…days…" Raistlin panted. "We must…act quickly…!"

Dalamar shook his head. "You are not well. You cannot hope to defeat Fistandantilus in that condition, however you were planning to do that in the first place."

The archmage glowered. "If I do not act now, I will never get the chance! My brother must be saved!" He turned once again to the table, gripping the edge with determined hands. Slowly, painfully, he drew himself to his feet, locking his knees as his muscles gave out. "Fetch me my black robes, if you still have them," he ordered from behind clenched teeth.

"They are locked in your laboratory, which cannot be opened," said Dalamar.

"Whyever not!"

"I wanted the dread portal to remain forever closed," the dark elf said quietly.

A few minutes flew by with no word. Raistlin had bowed his head, brooding; neither of the other occupants of the room wanted to disturb his thoughts. Finally, Raistlin looked up. "I see," he murmured. "I suppose it was best."

"I will bring you a set from my closet," Dalamar offered, relieved to see his _Shalafi_ agreed with his decision.

"As you wish."

Dalamar hurried out, leaving Raistlin alone with Senan.

After the dark elf was out of earshot, Raistlin turned toward Senan, motioning her to him with a wave of his hand. She went over to him, twisting her robes between nervous fingers.

"How…" the mage's voice was husky. Frowning, he cleared his throat. "How is Lady Crysania?"

"Sh…she is blind…" Senan couldn't take her eyes off him.

"I know that!" he snapped. "What I meant is…is she happy?"

"Um…"

"Do not lie."

"I find her crying a lot," Senan said finally. "She walks the corridors of the temple alone at night, tracing her fingers along the walls for guidance. I always come across her at the window overlooking this Tower. And…"

"And?"

"And….she always has your name on her lips." The cleric lowered her eyes at last.

Raistlin slumped against the table leg, his black hair tumbling in front of his eyes. "I had dared to hope she would forget about me," he murmured. "That some force…perhaps the merciful hand of Paladine…had closed her mind's eye upon those memories. At the very least, she could remember me with the hatred I so rightfully deserve…"

Senan was confused. "She loved you," she said hesitantly. "Love is not easily forgotten or forsaken. It is not vengeful or grudging. She holds tight to your memory with a fond hand, convincing herself that in the very end, you were able to see the error of your ways…"

"Foolish girl." Drawing his knees up to his chin, he put his face in his arms. "So blinded by her own righteousness that she cannot see the darkness that creeps up on her from behind…"

"You can make it right, can't you?" Senan demanded, moving closer. "You're here now! You can go back to her after you save your brother! You can tell her everything. You can mend her broken heart!"

"I cannot," he interrupted, his green, hourglass eyes boring into her own. "This body is temporary; it will only last until my purpose is fulfilled. After I have completed my mission, it will crumble into the components that made it." His hand traveled to his face, resting over his left eye. "Green for the herbs of life…" Slender fingers moved to touch his porcelain cheek. "White for the sands of time…" Finally, his fist clenched in his ebony hair. "Black, for life is a curse that will soon end." He fixed her with a razor-edged glare. "Lady Crysania must never know that I have returned to this world until I am long gone. It will be best if--"

"Coward."

Raistlin blinked. "What did you say?" he hissed.

"You're a coward," the girl repeated, returning his furious gaze with deadly calm. "You are afraid to make things right. You are afraid to face what you yourself have caused. You do not want to own up to your follies. And for that, you are a coward."

"You know nothing, girl," Raistlin sneered. "I have made no follies; but if I had, I would gladly repeat them. I never cared for Lady Crysania more than a hint of physical attraction." But as he spoke his voice wavered, as if he himself did not believe a word he was saying.

"Then why did you ask about her?" Senan persisted. "Why were you so shaken when I told you Crysania still loves you?"

"You misjudge me." A faint leer curled his lip. "My concern was not based on love; it sprouted from the debt I owe her for assisting my entry into the Abyss. If she did not remember, or if she despised my very existence, then the debt would be alleviated."

The cleric pursed her lips. "You intend to let that debt go regardless of whether she remembers or not, don't you?" When he didn't answer, she sighed, knowing she was right. "So. Is that why you came back to help your brother?" she asked quietly. "To repay a debt?"

"Yes. That, and my brother's part in the future of this planet is indispensable." His eyes took on a faraway look, as if they were indeed seeing into the future. "Yes," he murmured, "quite indispensable…"

Senan regarded the archmage intently – thoughtfully. Her emerald eyes slowly looked him up and down, and a slight flash of pity passed over her pretty face. "Tell me," she whispered, her hand unwittingly darting out to take his. "Does that armor of pride and ambition…ever chafe you?"

Raistlin stared at her a moment, then pulled his white hand away from her with a derisive sneer. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" she asked, moving closer still. "…don't you?"

For a fleeting moment, the defensive wall around the mage's soul crumbled, revealing the man who had suffered so much to gain so little; sacrificed everything for himself and received nothing for his efforts. The man who had lived out his life in his brother's shadow – the man who was forever shunned for what he did not have, and who was persecuted for that which he did.

__

The one who sought to build everything out of nothing to replace the world that had long since turned its back upon him.

In that split second of truth, Senan burned the image of the man within the fortress into her mind, vowing to free him at any cost. Even as the wall shot up once more and he turned away from her in derision, she promised herself that she would help him.

"It does not matter now," the mage was saying softly to himself. His hourglass eyes were turned heavenward, his porcelain fists clenched at his sides. "Whether it be for love or for honor, it does not matter. The task will be done." Pushing himself to his feet with renewed strength, Raistlin crossed the room with steps that faltered only slightly to where his staff was leaned against the wall, its blue-crystal orb reflecting dully in the candlelight. Raistlin reached out his slender hand and grasped the wooden shaft lovingly. The crystal flared into light, rejoicing at the return of its master. Raistlin's thin lips twisted into a small smile.

"_Dulak_," he whispered. The staff's light dimmed and went out. With a slight frown of remorse, he placed it back in the corner. Whispering a few words of magic, he touched the staff once more, making it disappear back into the laboratory from which it had been summoned. "Another waits for you," he said softly. "Until he comes to claim you, there you will remain."

"_Shalafi_," came Dalamar's silky voice. The dark elf stepped into the room carrying a small bundle of black velvet. He lowered his head slightly. "Your robes."

Raistlin turned to face his apprentice. The small smile curved further into a leer. "Thank you, Dalamar." Striding across the room, the archmage reached out to take the robes from the dark elf's hand. Then he stopped, his hand poised a few inches from the black material.

"What is it, _Shalafi_?" Dalamar inquired, his voice flat and emotionless.

"A word of warning, my dear apprentice." The mage's white, slender fingers moved to rest on the dark elf's chest. Dalamar flinched as his master's fingertips brushed across the festering wounds that were hidden under his robes – the ones those very same fingertips had inflicted what seemed like a hundred years ago. "You lived to betray me once," Raistlin hissed, clenching his fist around the folds of the black robes. "To do so again would cost you your life."

Dalamar bowed stiffly. "Of course, _Shalafi_," he murmured into his cowl, which fell low over his glittering dark eyes.

Satisfied, Raistlin turned back to Senan, who was gazing at him through wide, thoughtful eyes. "You may return to your temple, Revered Daughter," he told her, gesturing to the door. "Dalamar will speed you on your way."

The girl started as if she had been suddenly shaken awake by a rough hand. "But…are you sure? I mean, you're not well…"

"I am as 'well' as I have ever been," the mage said dryly. "Poor health hinders only the weak of heart. Dalamar, transport her back to the Temple. Remember, girl. Not a word to Lady Crysania, lest you bring more pain upon your foolish master."

Senan was about to say something, perhaps try one last time to persuade the mage to remain and recover his strength, but she was whisked away in a cyclone of magic, leaving the master and servant to themselves. Dalamar lowered his hand, feeling the ecstasy of the magic slowly fade away. He folded his arms into his sleeves and turned to Raistlin.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to leave next, _Shalafi_," said the dark elf.

"You 'suppose' right, apprentice," Raistlin mocked. "Get on with it."

Dalamar sighed, calling upon the words of magic and focusing his mind's eye upon Solace. As he cast the spell, Raistlin came close to the mage, grasping the dark elf's arm in a painfully hot grip.

"Tell the Conclave I send my regards," he murmured. The wounds on Dalamar's chest burned like fire, and the dark elf gasped, losing control of the magic. Raistlin disappeared in a cloud of magical smoke, his smirking face the last thing Dalamar saw before he collapsed to the floor.


	6. A Lover Always Knows

(A/N: Sorry I haven't updated in so long, peeps. Thanks for stickin' with me. R&R PLZ… Well, that's all I have to say. Enjoy.)

Lady Crysania sat on a worn quilt underneath a huge oak, which stood straight and tall just outside the doors of the Temple. Sunlight filtered through the thick leaves, dancing merrily on her thick black hair. Her heart-shaped lips spoke words of comfort, healing, and blessing as she touched worshiper after worshiper with her soft, healing hands. Terren sat at her side, his steel gray eyes watching her reverently, lovingly. It was whispered among the worshipers who stood near the back of the line that the young elf was enamored of the lovely Lady Crysania, and it was just a matter of time before he asked her hand in marriage. Young girls giggled at the prospect, while the men shook their heads, muttering darkly about elves and their 'blasted perfection'.

This particular day, Crysania seemed eager to get her daily service over and done with. Her unseeing eyes seemed strangely preoccupied, though some put it off as they were no longer under her control. Every once in a while her hand would stray to the medallion around her neck, as if to assure it was still there.

At long last, the service was over, and she rose reverently to her feet, blessing each and every one of her wide-eyed followers with a raised hand and whispered words of prayer. The people departed, murmuring among themselves, taking about the wonderful things they had witnessed or heard. Crysania started off toward the Temple so suddenly that Terren had to jump to his feet and take off at a near run to catch up.

"Revered Daughter!" He grabbed her arm. "You should not run off without a guide like that! You could trip or fall or worse--!"

"Paladine guides me," she said, unperturbed, but she allowed him to lead her towards the temple.

"You seem rather distant, Lady." He shot her a concerned glance. "Is something bothering you?"

"No," she lied. "I am tired. That is all."

"Let me get the door. Don't move." Letting go of her arm, he jogged easily up the steps, reaching out to grab the handle.

At that moment, Senan materialized out of thin air, suspended about two feet above the elf's head.

"What the--"

"Waiii!"

Senan came tumbling down upon Terren, and the two landed at Crysania's feet in a tangle of arms, legs, and curses.

"What happened? Is that you, Senan?" Crysania knelt down, hands eagerly running over the girl's smooth face for recognition. Senan grasped her mentor's hands warmly.

"Yes, Revered Daughter. I am back."

"Thank Paladine!" Crysania embraced her servant. Then, pulling back, her smile faded into a frown. "What happened with Dalamar?"

"Before you explain, Senan," Terren's voice interrupted, muffled by the girl's white robes. "Would you mind getting off of me?"

"Oh! Forgive me, Terren." Giving the irritated elf's face a friendly slap, Senan hefted herself to her feet, reaching out a helping hand.

Terren ignored it, nimbly rolling into a standing position. He brushed himself off, eyeing the newly arrived young cleric suspiciously. "And where have you been that you come tumbling out of thin air?" he demanded.

"Nowhere in particular," she replied, giving him a supremely innocent look.

Before Terren could proclaim that he didn't believe her and demand the truth, Crysania grabbed Senan's arm. "Let us go to the sanctuary, my Daughter. We will discuss this there." The young cleric nodded and began to carefully lead her master up the steps of the Temple.

"Wait a minute!" Terren scampered up the steps and planted himself firmly in front of the two. "You're not going without me!"

"I'm afraid we are, my Son," Crysania said softly. "Please. Wait for me here."

Before he could protest, Crysania called upon Paladine to whisk them into the sanctuary, leaving the young elf to simmer in his own fury.

"So what did you learn?" Crysania asked eagerly, her milky eyes staring eerily into Senan's face.

"More than I think I needed to know," the girl muttered, shifting under the sightless gaze.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"Well, out with it! Please, tell me what the dream meant!" the Head of Church's voice pleaded with her servant, and her hands clenched and unclenched as if she would rip the information from the girls' very mind.

"Um, well…" Senan considered what she should tell her master and what she should keep hidden. "The part about Caramon Majere…that was true. Do you remember a dark wizard named Fist…Fisteetant…"

"Fistandantilus?" Crysania supplied, her face going several shades paler.

"Yes, that was it. He somehow used that red gem to fuse himself to Caramon. Within a week, Caramon will be completely under his spell, then he will…cease to exist. Fistandantilus will return to the world with Raistlin's great power and Caramon's great strength; unless…" she snapped her mouth shut, afraid she'd already said too much.

"Unless what?" the older cleric demanded, reaching out to take Senan's hands in a strong grip. "You know you can tell me anything. I must know!"

Senan was suddenly shamefully glad for her master's blindness, for through that darkness, she could not see the girl's face grow flushed; she could not see her eyes avert themselves in shame.

"They're…they're going to destroy the jewel…and thus release his hold on Caramon," she said haltingly, her mind working fast.

Crysania was silent for a time. Then, "You don't have to lie to me. The gem can only be destroyed by a wizard of great, great power. Please, Senan! You are like a daughter to me! For you to lie to me like this tears at my heart…"

"I cannot tell!" the girl burst out, tears slipping down her cheeks. In her mind, she could hear Raistlin forbidding her to tell Crysania. She could see his porcelain face with its golden tinge twisted with anguish…she could see the wall being dropped…

"Please, Senan." Crysania's voice was calmer now, but it held an icy edge. "If you will not tell me, I will have to resort to force."

The cleric blinked in astonishment. "W…what?"

"You heard me, dear. If you will not tell me the news of Raistlin, I will rip it from your lips."

Senan laughed nervously. "You…you're not serious…" But even as she spoke, she could tell from Crysania's dangerous expression that she was quite serious. Deadly serious. The girl swallowed hard. "How?" she whispered. "How will you do it, if I refuse to tell you?"

Crysania's lips were set in a grim line. Getting up, she felt her way to the doors of the sanctuary. "Terren!" she called, knowing the elf was just beyond the entrance. "You may enter."

The golden doors creaked open, and Terren stepped inside. He bowed, somewhat red in the face, thinking he was about to be scolded for following them. "Yes, Revered Daughter," he mumbled.

"I want you to use your truth-seek to probe Senan's mind. She hides information from me, information that is vital and of utmost importance."

His head snapped up in surprise. Few knew about his Silvanesti ability to sift through other beings' souls, and he could not recall ever telling the Head of Church of the terrible ability. He cleared his rapidly drying throat, wetting parched lips. "C-concerning what, my Lady?"

"Search for anything pertaining to Raistlin Majere."

The elf's expression hardened. "I see no purpose in doing so, my lady. Raistlin Majere is dead."

"So it would seem," Crysania muttered. "Please, Terren. Do as I say."

Shaking his head, he bowed once more in acquiesce. "As you wish."

Senan scrambled back against the alter. "N-no! Revered Daughter, why are you doing this? There is nothing you can

do--"

"I would like to be the judge of that," the cleric said grimly. "This information may very well affect the world."

Terren pointed a slender finger at the cowering girl.

"You do this only for love of Raistlin," Senan whispered brokenly, as Terren began to recite the words of the spell. "For him, you would do anything – even throw yourself into the depths of the Abyss."

"For love of Raistlin," Crysania repeated softly. "Yes, for him I would do anything. For him, so many would do so much…"

"Then it is about time he did something for the world, even if he himself refuses to admit it," Senan said to herself, just as she sank into the unconsciousness of the elven spell.

Terren closed his eyes and delved deep into her heart, his perfect lips mouthing the name 'Raistlin Majere' in a silent chant. After a few more minutes, he sat back on his haunches, his elven face paler than usual.

"What did you find?" Crysania asked eagerly, feeling her way up onto the alter platform. She cradled Senan in an apologetic embrace, though her face was turned toward Terren. The elf cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Raistlin Majere is back among the living," he said hoarsely, his gray eyes standing out with startling contrast to his increasingly white face. "Right now he travels to Solace to help his brother, Caramon, seeking to dispel Fistandantilus once and for all. It seems as if he will…disappear…the moment his task is completed, and he will return to the Abyss to await whatever torture the Queen has in store for him." He mopped his brow with the sleeve of his white robe. "He told Senan not to tell you for reasons that are unclear to me…"

"So he is alive," Crysania breathed. Her hand shook as she clutched the medallion around her neck.

"So it would seem," Terren muttered, silently cursing the truth seek for its never-failing accuracy.

"Oh, Paladine, thank you for this chance!" The Head of Church bowed her head reverently. "I will not fail you this time. I will redeem Raistlin from his shadowy grave and return him to your loving embrace! Terren, when Senan awakens, tell her that she is in charge until I return." Crysania stood up, her pretty face radiant with an inner light. "And also tell her…that I am sorry."

Terren lowered his head. "I will, Revered Daughter. But must you take this course of action? Raistlin Majere" he shuddered as he spoke the name – "would not have specifically requested your ignorance of this matter without reason. He is intelligent, albeit evil, and he would not say something like that unless it was in his best interest."

"I am going regardless of his intentions," Crysania said firmly. "Remember to tell her what I said." With a quick prayer to Paladine, the Head Cleric was gone in a flash of holy light. Terren picked up Senan in his strong arms, his eyes never leaving where his mentor had stood.

"If you could just let go of the past, my beloved Crysania," he murmured into the stillness. "Then I would be able to make you the happiest woman alive. Curse you to your Abyss, Raistlin Majere. Though you are gone, your hold on this world is still all too strong."

Chapter Eight: An Unfortunate Encounter.

Crysania appeared in the main marketplace of Solace. The market was actually on the ground below the vallenwoods, for it was easier for the caravans to make their deliveries someplace their horses could reach. Dwarves, a few elves, humans, and countless kender swarmed about the stands and shops. Knights of Solamnia lazily patrolled the area, stopping every once in a while for a quick chat or to drive some too-curious kender out of a shop. Crysania could hear their voices jumble in her head, and she reeled, wondering vaguely how she had missed her location – the Inn of the Last Home. She was about to try again when she felt two tiny arms suddenly wrap themselves around her legs. Startled, she instinctively whipped her head around.

"Who's there?" she cried.

"It's me, Tasslehoff Burrfoot!" came the shrill reply. "Don't you remember me? Hey, why are you looking over there? Oh yes, you're blind. Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that! I meant…uh…you smell like lime!"

Crysania smiled, feeling about until her soft hand rested on the kender's prized topknot. "Hello, Tas. Good to see you again."

"But you _can't_ see me! Or can you?" The kender peered closer, and Crysania suppressed a giggle.

"Just an expression, my dear friend. I was just on my way to the Inn, actually--"

Tas's expression darkened. "The Inn's closed, actually," he said apologetically. "But I guess you haven't heard, have you? Caramon apparently collapsed a few days ago, and now he's all comatose and Tika won't stop crying and – say, could you help us? You're a cleric! Yeah, come on!" Tas dragged at her hand, trying to make her follow along behind him. She obliged, gratefully letting the little kender lead her through the maze of stands and shops.

"I've heard, as a matter of fact," Crysania told him, pulling her white hood low over her face to keep from being recognized. Much as she loved the people of Krynn, now was not the time to get mobbed by a horde of the sick, weary, or dying. "I came to see if there was anything I could do."

"Thanks be to Reorx," Tas said passionately, as he had heard his friend Flint do on many occasions. Thinking of the ornery old dwarf brought a tear to his eye, but he quickly blinked it away. He pulled Crysania to the side of the street to keep her from being hit by a passing cart. "Tika'll be so happy to see you."

The cleric squeezed his little hand thankfully. "Happy to come, Tas…happy to come."

The kender flushed with pleasure. So pleased was he that he decided to go seek out the owner of a particularly fancy purse that had found its way down his shirt front. "I'll only be a minute!" he called from about fifty paces away.

"Tas, wait!" Crysania cried after him, knowing full well that it would be no use. Unable to use her clerical powers in the middle of the busy street, she felt her way through the crowd and blundered into an alley. "By Paladine, where am I now?" she muttered to herself, groping around for something – anything – that she could use as a walking stick. As she felt along the ground, her hand came to rest upon velvety garments that covered a warm body. She blinked. "What the…"

The figure groaned and shifted under her touch. Then she heard it give a strangled gasp.

"Are you all right?" she asked, drawing her cowl back to let her silky black hair fall about her shoulders. "I am a cleric of Paladine, and if there's any way I can help you, please tell me." She frowned as the figure, whom she guessed was a man, made nothing but incoherent squeaks. "Here, let me try to heal you--"

"I am not ill!" the man rasped, pushing her hand away.

"Sir, I can hear it in your voice--"

"No! There is nothing you can do!" She heard the man heft himself painfully to his feet and try to stumble off down the alley. Concerned, she moved to follow him, only to be greeted by a loud crash as the man toppled over onto the pavement.

"You see?" Crysania said gently, kneeling beside him and placing her hand upon his forehead. His skin was strangely hot to the touch, and she worried that he might have a fever. "You have most certainly contracted some disease. You're burning up! Please, let me help you."

"I don't need your help, cleric," he snarled. But he did not push her hand away this time.

"Be calm," she crooned, brushing back his silky hair. Settling herself against the wall, she pulled his head into her lap. "Be still. You are safe in the arms of Paladine. In his name you will be healed."

"Paladine cares nothing for me, and he never will. My soul is too dark with crimes that go without reparation." He moved feebly in her arms, trying halfheartedly to break free of her embrace.

"Shhh…" Crysania pressed her lips to his forehead, and was surprised to feel him shudder beneath their touch. "Paladine is merciful and forgiving. He loves us all unconditionally, and I'm sure he will willingly accept your repentance."

"A curse on Paladine and all he stands for," the man muttered under his breath, hiding his words by burying his face in the folds of her robes. When she asked him to repeat himself, he simply shook his head.

"I returned the purse, Lady Crysania. Boy, lord Aragard was happy to get it back! I told him to be more careful with his valuables. One never knows when a thief might be about—hello, what's this?" Tas came skipping down the alley and squatted down next to the cleric, his bright eyes twinkling with curiosity.

"This man needed my help," Crysania explained. "I found him back here, and now I'm going to heal him." Her hand traveled to her medallion and a prayer formed on her lips, but the burning hand caught her wrist and held her firm.

"You cannot heal me. I am weak from travel, nothing more." The man looked up. When he saw Tas, his eyes went wide. Immediately he pulled the black hood over his head, hiding his face from view.

"You're certainly an interesting fellow," Tas said politely after having his hand smacked away from the velvet cowl, which he had unwittingly tried to remove. "You kind of remind me of my friend Raistlin." The man stiffened, but the kender didn't notice. "Of course, he's quite dead now. It's really a fascinating story. Would you care to hear it?" Without waiting for an answer, Tas launched happily into his tale. "Well, Raistlin had gone evil and he was trying to defeat the Dark Queen, which was stupid, but I guess that didn't really occur to him until it was too late. Anyway, Caramon had gone into the Abyss after Lady Crysania over there and he found his brother and--"

"I am familiar with that story, kender," the man interrupted, his delicate white hands clenched in irritation. "And it is not one of my favorites. So if you'll excuse me, I have to be going to the Inn of the Last--"

"Oh!" Tas exclaimed in delight. "We were just heading there ourselves! You can come with us."

"Why were you going there?" Crysania wondered, turning her sightless eyes upon him. "You must know that it is closed…?"

"I…I am an old friend of the family," he stammered, drawing his hood even lower over his face. "I came to…to voice my grievances to Lady Tika."

"Friend of the family, eh? What's your name?" Tas tried once again to remove the hood, and was pleasantly surprised when little bolts of static electricity temporarily numbed his fingertips.

"My name is…er…Denubis. Denubis Ishton." At the name, Crysania frowned as if trying to remember where she had heard it before. But, unable to put a face with the name, she shrugged and gave up.

"Don't recognize that name. I'm Tasslehoff Burrfoot, Hero of the Lance." The kender politely offered his small hand to shake.

Denubis did not take it. Green eyes glittered from the depths of the black hood. "Take me to the Inn," he ordered in a breathy voice.

"Gosh, you certainly _do_ remind me a lot of my friend Raistlin," Tas remarked. "He was always impolite, rude, and sarcastic too! Not to mention the black robes--"

"The Inn!" the mage roared, making Crysania and Tas jump.

"Ok ok, Mr. Bossy," Tas grumbled. Taking the High Cleric gently by the hand, he led the two down the street and into the trees. Crysania reached out laced her fingers through the man's, smiling reverently as she gave it a squeeze, which was not returned. The man simply walked along in brooding silence, his green-eyed glare resting always on the cleric's unseeing face.

Noticing this unusual occurrence, Tas stopped to take a look for himself.

"Does she have something on her face?" the kender asked loudly, peering closer.

Denubis flushed. "No, there is nothing on her face, you dunderhead!"

"Then what are you staring at, if she doesn't have something on her – saaaay…" A mischievous grin split Tas's face nearly in two. "You _like_ her, dontcha?"

Now it was Crysania's turn to go red. "T-Tas!" she protested.

"Given, the Lady is very beautiful, but I do not _like_ her, as you imply," Denubis snarled. "Now take me to the Inn before I put a compass spell on you and make you fly there!"

Tas brightened. "Now that you mention it, I have this _wonderful_ body compass that works wonders. See, all you have to do is stick your arms out like this--" The kender spread his arms wide. "Then you start spinning and the iron in your body will always point you north!" Tas spun around six times then dug in his heels to halt himself. His finger pointed due West. "Ah! See? There's north!"

"Most impressive," Denubis muttered, placing a heavy hand on the little imp's shoulder. "Now, for the last time – lead me to the Inn or I will _not_ make you fly – I'll turn you into a rock!"

Tas considered. Though it would be quite fun to be a rock, it would get rather tiresome not being able to move all day long. "No, thanks," he declined politely. "I'd rather fly. It was awfully nice of you to offer, though."

Crysania suppressed a giggle. Denubis smacked his forehead.

"Then I will find it myself!" the mage growled. Shaking free of the cleric's grasp, he mounted the stairs that led to the upper levels of the vallenwoods.

"Wait!" Tas wailed, running up and attaching himself to the man's robed leg. "If I don't show you, you'll get lost!"

"Get off, you little parasite! The Inn is right up ahead! I can see it!"

"Oh you're right!" Tas smiled sheepishly and let go of his leg. "Imagine that."

"Tas?" Crysania was weaving through the crowed, hand outstretched. She bumped into about ten different people and almost knocked over a cart of fruit, for which she received a curse and a kick. She tumbled to the wooden walkway with a cry of pain.

"Blind beggar!" the fruit seller snarled, raising his foot to deliver another kick.

"Do not touch her." Denubis wound his way through the throngs of people, his soft voice carrying like thunder over the hubbub. Reaching Crysania, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her to her feet, pushing her protectively behind him.

"D…Denubis?" she ventured, clinging to his robes in fear. "Don't worry about it, let's just go--"

"Do you have the slightest idea of whom you just struck?" the mage went on, ignoring Crysania's pleas to move along.

The man snorted. "Some scurvy ol' beggar. Good for nuthin'."

Denubis regarded the man with an amused smirk. "This is Revered Daughter Crysania, Head Cleric of the Church of Paladine."

The vendor's face went pale. He immediately sank to his knees and pressed his forehead against the wooden walkway. "Forgive me, Revered Daughter!" he cried.

Crysania gave an exasperated sigh. "I did not want to be discovered," she whispered to Denubis, who simply folded his hands into the sleeves of his black robes. Placing her hand upon his head, Crysania bade the man to rise. "All is forgiven," she said softly. "Just take this as a lesson; treat others as if the next person who crossed your path could be a god."

"Y-yes'm," the vender mumbled, bobbing his head up and down. "I'll ne'er forget it. But may I ask why yer ladyship is travelin' with a black robed mage?" He peered closer, beady pig eyes looking the magic user over with disdain. " 'e wouldn't happen t'be Raistlin Majere, would'ee?"

"Of course not!" Crysania nearly shouted. "Raistlin Majere is…is dead."

"So we hope," the man said placidly. "G'day t'ya, Mistress." With one last hurried bow, the man hefted his cart and lumbered off down the walkway.

As soon as he was gone, people swarmed around Crysania, reaching out to touch her, begging her blessing, or just standing in awe. Crysania tried to worm her way through the crowd, only to find her way blocked by a living barrier.

"Please, good people, I am weary and I wish to go to the Inn of the Last Home. I am needed there, and--"

"She's come to heal Caramon Majere!"

"Finally we can be at peace!"

"Thanks to Paladine! Blessed Paladine!"

"Wonderful news, milady."

"Let us escort you, Revered Daughter!"

"Th…that's not necessary," Crysania said helplessly. "Really, I must go alone."

Denubis stepped in front of her. The milling crowd immediately hushed.

"_Ast separalon jilak solationast!_" Immediately people moved aside as if they had been shoved by some invisible hand, clearing a path right up to the steps of the Inn. Sensing the magic, Crysania grabbed the sleeve of his robe.

"What did you do?" she demanded frantically. "You didn't hurt them, did you?"

"No," he replied. "I simply moved them aside. Come, Revered Daughter. I will lead you to your destination." Twisting his arm so her hand rested in the crook of his elbow, he led her toward the Inn.

"Wow! That was amazing, Denubis!" Tas scampered up to join the two, but, to his delight, he was repelled and smashed against the trunk of a huge vallenwood. Giggling loudly, he drunkenly staggered to his feet. "Great trick!" he called after the mage, who pointedly ignored him. "Hehe…was seeing little birds part of the spell? Gee, I do hope so…"

Tika heard the commotion all the way from the Common Room of the Inn of the Last Home. She and Tanis had moved Caramon to one of the rooms of the Inn so they could look after him and their livelihood at the same time. Meanwhile, the whole group of companions had congregated in the common room to offer their condolences and support. Goldmoon and Riverwind, with their two daughters and son, were sitting by the fire listening to the Que-shu princess tell stories of the War of the Lance. Laurana was engaged in quiet conversation with her husband, and they both were casting wary glances toward the window as the hubbub became louder and louder. Finally, Tika couldn't take it anymore. She threw down the bar rag she had been using to wipe down the same mug for the last half hour and stalked over to the window.

"What in Paladine's good name is going on out there?" she wondered. Then her eyes went wide.

Seeing Tika's unusual reaction, Tanis frowned and went over to join her, gesturing for Laurana to stay put. "What is it, Tika?"

"A…a black robed mage…and Lady Crysania!" she breathed, pointing a shaking finger. "Tanis, you don't think it could be…"

"Raistlin? No," the half-elf assured her quickly. "Here, I'll go meet them outside and ask them a few questions, alright? Stay here." Giving her red curls a quick pat of reassurance, Tanis dashed out the door.

Tika hurried over to Laurana and grasped the elf's slender hands. Even after all these years since the war, she could still feel the calluses the sword had worn into the soft skin. "Laurana," she said quietly, not wanting to disturb Riverwind or Goldmoon. "I've got this really weird feeling about that mage out there. I know it can't be Raistlin, but somehow…"

"I know. I feel it too." Laurana frowned, a crease of worry marring her smooth brow. "Here, let's go to the window. Maybe we can learn something from the conversation."

The two women stole over to the window. Tika opened it a crack, and they both pressed their ear to the small slit.

"So what did you say your name was?" Tanis was asking the mage. He had taken Lady Crysania from the mage and bid her go on up to the Inn, which was no more than ten paces away. The cleric hesitated, then slowly mounted the steps to the door.

"I didn't," the dark robed mage said coolly. Glittering green eyes shone from the depths of his hood. "But if you must know, my name is Denubis Ishton, and I am from Palanthas." He gave a curt bow. "Now if you would step aside, I would like to pay a visit to Caramon Majere."

"I do not like to admit someone unless I can see their face," Tanis returned, not budging. Tika and Laurana held their breath. "And surely you must have heard that Caramon Majere is not well."

"I have heard. I have come to…see if there is anything I can do. His brother, though he was an arrogant fool, was still well respected among the Black Robes." Slowly he drew back the cowl, revealing a mass of shining black hair that framed a white, fine-boned face. Ashen lips the color of dried blood were pursed in annoyance as he regarded the half elf with glittering green eyes.

Tika and Laurana simultaneously let out a sigh of relief.

"He's definitely not Raistlin," said Laurana, managing a nervous laugh. "We were certainly foolish to harbor such ridiculous notions."

Tika nodded, pressing a finger to her lips. Crysania had just walked through the door, and Goldmoon had gone to meet her and lead her to the fire. The chieftain's daughter cast the women at the window a questioning look, but Tika dismissed it with a quick gesture for silence.

"Are you ill, sir?" Tanis asked, eyeing the mage's white complexion suspiciously. "You seem rather pale."

"I am not ill, Half-Elven. Now let me pass. Time grows short." Denubis pushed past the half elf without waiting for a reply, gliding up the steps with liquid grace.

"Wait…how did you know my name?" Tanis caught hold of the man's sleeve and almost pulled his hand back in alarm. The man's arm radiated with a strange sort of heat that was almost scalding to the touch.

The mage whipped his head around, his lip curling in disgust. "Come now. You are a Hero of the Lance. Everyone knows your name and description. I have seen at least fifteen paintings depicting your marvelous adventure."

Tanis let go, his face going red. "I…I suppose," he muttered into his beard.

Denubis turned back to the door and pushed it open, stepping across the threshold with rapid, even steps. Tanis followed, shutting the door behind him.

Laurana and Tika leapt away from the window. Crysania lifted her head and gazed sightlessly toward the door.

"Denubis?" she ventured.

"Yes, Revered Daughter. I am here." The Black Robe's gaze lingered on the High Cleric for a short moment, then he looked away. Suddenly his expression darkened as if he had suddenly seen a foreboding premonition. With a strangled cry, he whirled and advanced on Tika, who yelped and instinctively groped for a sword that wasn't there.

"Peace, Tika! For the love of Nuitari!" the mage growled, exasperated. However, a strain of what could have been worry crossed his face, setting the porcelain skin into creasing lines. "Tell me where you have put Caramon. I will see to him there."

"I…I'd rather let Lady Crysania take a look at him first, if you don't mind," Tika stated quietly. She glanced over to the fire, where the High Cleric was bombarding Goldmoon with eager questions about the occupants of the room. A thought struck her, and she looked back to the mage, brow furrowing. "How did you know I was Tika?"

Denubis rolled his eyes. "I will give you the same explanation I gave that fool of a half elf. You are a Hero of the Lance, are you not? Your name and face are well renowned."

"Tanis is not a fool," Laurana interrupted angrily, with an indignant toss of her honey-colored hair. "We have every right to be suspicious of a black robed mage. And if you are as familiar with the stories of the war as you seem, then you know the reason quite well."

"Even after his death, you all still cower in fear at his memory," the mage sneered. "Pathetic cowards."

"Not in fear," Tika murmured, "but in pity."

Eyes flaring wide, the mage reeled as if he had been struck with a morning star dipped in hot iron. "P…pity!" he raged. "How dare you! He was the most powerful mage to ever walk upon Krynn, and you say you _pity_ him!"

"With power comes isolation," Goldmoon quoted an old Que-shu proverb, "and with isolation comes despair." Riverwind nodded in agreement. His little son, Wanderer, looked up at the mention of the familiar saying with a timid smile.

"You're all fools," Denubis spat, turning his back on the lot of them. "Stupid, good-hearted fools. I will find Caramon on my own." He strode toward the door leading to the customer's rooms of the Inn, only to have his way blocked by Tanis and Riverwind. "Stand aside!" he hissed, hand straying to his spell components.

"Not until we get the OK from Tika," Tanis said grimly.

Tika cast him a grateful look and hurried over to Crysania. "Revered Daughter, please go take a look at my husband," she pleaded. "There must be something you can do!"

"No," Crysania replied, sightless eyes turned inward. "There is nothing I can do. Let the mage proceed. Perhaps he can prepare the way for the one who will come soon after."

"The one who will…" Tika's face went pale. "Revered Daughter, you can't be serious…"

"Raistlin will come," Crysania said confidently. "He will free Caramon from that which binds him."

"Let him pass," Tika called to Tanis and Riverwind, who reluctantly stepped aside. With one last disgusted look, Denubis hurried past him and swept down the hall, disappearing into Caramon's room in a flurry of black robes.

A few minutes passed without interruption. Crysania listened closely, expectantly, while the others paced or sipped thirstlessly at a mug of ale.

"Where is he?" Crysania wondered aloud. "He should be here…"

"He's not coming," Goldmoon said suddenly, her hand clasping the medallion of Mishakal that hung around her neck.

"What? But he must!" Crysania gripped her own medallion. "The dream – what Senan witnessed--"

Goldmoon put cold, slender fingers over Crysania's lips. Her blue eyes were wide and unblinking, and beads of sweat stood out on her furrowed brow.

"He will not come," she whispered hoarsely, "because he is already here."


	7. Playing with Fire

(A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update. I know it's been forever. I have up to like chapter sixteen written, but I'm more focused on my DBZ fic right now. Well, anyway, I hope you like it, and I'll try to update on a more regular basis. Please R&R.)

"I should have known!" Tanis cried, pacing furiously back and forth across the common room. The others followed his path helplessly, not knowing what to do. "Curse that sly, conniving, sunnuva--" With a sharp yell, Tanis drew his sword and started to charge after the Black Robe, only to be thrown back by a spell of warning. He crashed heavily at Laurana's feet. She sighed and helped him up.

"What can we do? Why is he here?" Tika demanded, green eyes flashing dangerously.

"You don't know, then…?" Crysania asked wonderingly.

"Know what?" came the simultaneous response.

Though she could not see it, Crysania could sense that all eyes were on her. "Fistandantilus, the wizard who inhabited Raistlin's body when he completed his Test, was freed upon the archmage's death; and he took Raistlin's power with him. Now he seeks to enter the world again, this time in the body his former host's twin brother. That's why Raistlin came back. He came back to save his brother!"

"Somehow I find that hard to believe," Tanis muttered, rubbing a growing knot forming just above his left eyebrow. "Raistlin would never lift a finger for someone else unless it had something to do with his own plan of action." Gently pushing away his wife's worried touch, he began to once more pace the room.

" Of what plan of action do you speak, Half Elven?" Crysania demanded. "Raistlin was at rest, held to peace by his brother's essence. Now that the bond to eternal sleep has been severed and his brother is in danger, he wants nothing more than to save his brother's life!"

"How do we know that?" the half elf argued, kicking a pail across the floor in frustration. "For all we know, Raistlin could be in allegiance with the Dark Queen, and they could have been planning this from the very moment he was sealed into the Abyss!"

"It was he who kept her from entering this world in the first place, Tanis," Goldmoon pointed out gently. "There is no way that she would form any such alliance with her most hated adversary."

"Plus, the moment he completes his mission, he will be taken back to the Abyss, never to return," Crysania added quietly, almost to herself. The group turned once more to stare at her, this time in disbelief. She drew herself up defiantly under their scrutinizing gaze. "Perhaps you have always misjudged Raistlin, and perhaps that is why you have always distanced yourself from him."

"But it was he who distanced himself from us!" Tanis said halfheartedly, knowing that she spoke the truth.

Crysania shook her head. "No. He always strove for your approval, wanted nothing more than to be, for once, looked upon with the same respect that is given his brother. And when he could not achieve this, when he received only bitter rebuke for his attempts, he withdrew from the world. He hid beneath a mask of defiance, pride, and a lashing tongue. He turned completely to the magic, which consumed him like wildfire. I know you scorn this course, condemn his actions as heinous sins that can never be redeemed. But you know what? That was all he had left."

Raistlin heard Crysania's bold speech from his place by his brother's bedside. He smiled bitterly.

"How well you describe me, Lady Crysania," he muttered. "It seems you know me better than I know myself. But there is one thing you have wrong. I care nothing for the world's approval. I care nothing for the praise of that fool of a half-elf. No. All I want…" he reached out a trembling hand and laid it upon his brother's cold forehead. His twin's skin was like ice beneath the burning touch. Raistlin smoothed back the wavy brown locks, hair that had been so much like his own before the wretched wizard had shattered his health and cast him into the shadows. "All I want is for it to end," he whispered. "I am tired…so very tired. I just want to lay my head upon your strong arm once more, my brother…and let the cool darkness take me. This world holds nothing for me. But for you, my brother…for you, the future promises many great things. Joy, fertility…children…love." The archmage's unnaturally green eyes flicked over to the gem his brother held in a crushing grip; a grip that would have shattered any normal piece of jewelry. The bloodstone that was all too familiar pulsed, with the regularity of a human heartbeat, a malicious red under his brother's pale fingers. He smirked. "So we meet again, you little parasite," he sneered. Placing a hand that no longer shook over his brother's, he held it fast. "Be strong, Caramon," he murmured. "This time, _I_ will save _you._" Closing his eyes, he willed his mind into the jewel.

Senan awoke in her feather-down bed with the curtains drawn shut, a porcelain face with flowing black hair still vivid in her mind. Trying in vain to push the picture to the back of her mind, she wondered vaguely how long she had been asleep. Turning stiffly onto her side, she opened the gossamer bedhangings and peered out the window.

"The sun's still up," she muttered, "but that can mean that I've slept for a few hours, a day, or even a week. I guess I'll have to go find out…wait!" She sat bolt upright, sending her red hair tumbling messily about her shoulders. "I almost forgot! Raistlin…and Lady Crysania…"

__

She betrayed you, young one.

"Huh?" Senan turned this way and that, but could not locate the speaker. "Hey…where are you?"

__

The High Cleric betrayed you. Against your wishes and mine, she used the truth-seek to fish information that was not for her to know out of your unwilling mind. She has once more submersed herself in darkness, and this time, there is nothing I can do to save her.

"Who are you?" the cleric asked, drawing her coverlet up around her chin.

__

Why, my child! I am the voice you have been following your entire life! Do you not recognize your god?

"P…Paladine…" she stammered. "My god…" she slid onto the floor, pressing her forehead to the cool marble. "Forgive me, I did not realize…"

__

Rise, my child. I have many things to tell you.

Shaking, Senan crawled once more under her silken coverlet. "I will listen with all my heart and soul."

__

Very good. Senan flushed with pleasure as she felt the god embrace her. _You are familiar with Crysania's past, are you not?_

"Yes," she answered. "The past concerning her and Raistlin?"

__

Then you are aware that she has tried and failed to bring the archmagus to the light?

The cleric bit her lip. "Unfortunately." She pictured the slender young man with his white hair and golden eyes, and she could not repress a shudder of delight.

__

You could succeed where she has failed, my child. You desire Raistlin Majere, do you not?

Senan clapped her hands over reddening cheeks, ducking her head in shame.

The god laughed. _Do not be ashamed, my dear. It is true that Raistlin Majere walks in darkness, but the darkness is not that which you have been lead to believe. _Senan thought she sensed a hint of anger in the god's voice, but she put it off that she had imagined it, for when Paladine spoke again, it was with the same gentle, loving calm that he always used. _That particular mage fights on no side but his own. I want you to bring him to our side, dear one. With him walking with us, we could expel the other gods once and for all!_

"But I thought balance must be maintained," Senan ventured hesitantly. "You have never before strove to get rid of the others--"

__

Oh, I do not intend to dispose of them all. Just the ones who oppose me. The gods of neutrality will remain, as will the gods of magic, so long as they do not interfere. The other force in this world grows too strong, and I seek to obliterate it.

"Then I was right, wasn't I?" Senan's eyes shone. "When I spoke with Lady Crysania that night, she told me that balance must be maintained, as were the teachings of Elistan. I told her all evil must be eradicated! Oh, I was right…"

The god smiled, but did not reply.

"What must I do, Great One?" Senan asked eagerly. "Tell me and I shall obey."

__

Bring me the Staff of Magius. With it, I will open the dread portal and draw Crysania to myself. I will purge her soul and make her worthy of me. In exchange for her soul, I will restore Raistlin to life. He will join us in our cause, and we will be unstoppable! You will have your lover, and I will have the world as it should be!

"Um…Great One, shouldn't we wait until Raistlin has defeated Fistandantilus? Only a mage of dark power can manage that…"

__

As you wish, young one. Fistandantilus will be destroyed within the day. In that time, you must go to the Tower of High Sorcery. I have granted you a charm that will allow you to pass unharmed through the Shoikan Grove.

"But there is a specter guarding the door to the room, and he is bound to never let anyone pass--"

__

The door will be opened from the inside. Do not worry.

"I…I have one more question."

__

Speak.

"Won't Raistlin…disappear after his duty to his brother is complete? Isn't that the deal he made?" Senan twisted the silk between her hands, her head bowed.

The god laughed. _Silly girl. Raistlin Majere's work is far from finished, whether he knows it or not._

Senan raised her face to the heavens, eyes shining and defiant. "I am ready, Great One," she cried. "I will do all that you have asked."

When Raistlin opened his mental eyes, he was in a room fashioned completely out of ruby. There were no furnishings, no rugs, no windows. Just a plain, empty room.

"Raistlin Majere. So good of you to come."

Raistlin whirled around to face a crypt of a man. Decaying eyes stared out of sunken eyesockets that were more bone than flesh. The nose had rotted away, leaving two hideous holes in its place. Dry, blackened lips were pulled back from yellow teeth in a haunting leer. Skeletal hands were folded into the sleeves of black, moldy robes which hung in tatters from the ancient wizard's bony shoulders. Raistlin's lip curled in disgust.

"So you've opted to become a mummy," the young mage retorted, clenching his fists in his sleeves to keep from throwing up. Or could he have thrown up, being only a mental apparition? He wasn't sure, but he decided not to risk it. "Personally, I would rather have died than keep up that farce. Where is my brother?"

"So you actually care now, do you? But then, I suppose you always did. Ever the weakling, eh, Raistlin?"

Raistlin bit back a bitter remark. "If I am a weakling," he grated with forced calm, "then why do you fear me?"

"Because you were once…well…me." The mummy wizard's horrible smile widened. "So in reality, I am afraid of myself. Quite ironic, is it not?" He barked a laugh.

"Ironic isn't exactly the word I'd use," Raistlin muttered. "More suitable would be the term…pitiful."

The laughter ceased. "What did you say?" Fistandantilus hissed. "Pitiful? The only one who is 'pitiful' is you, my dear host. You and your frivolous attachments!"

"It was those 'frivolous attachments' that kept you from gaining control of my brother's body for so long, you wretch. He knew I would come to help him, and so he held on." Raistlin reached out to touch the ruby wall of the room with a slender hand. He caressed it, feeling the rotting mage's eyes widen in fear upon his back. Smirking, he curled his fingers into a fist. "And I will help him. By all the gods, I will free him from your parasitical hold if it rips my soul to shreds!"

"Touchingly noble, young whelp. But nobility wins admiration and foolish songs, not battles between men."

"Or what's left of them," Raistlin returned cynically. "In the words of a very wise man, _'Est Sularus oth Mithas'_. My honor is my life. Though this phrase is long past applying to me, it has won many battles." Turning, he placed both hands upon the wall, which seemed to darken to the color of blood.

Fistandantilus chuckled disparagingly. "This should prove most entertaining," he chuckled, moldy breath rasping through his yellowed teeth. "A weakling like you trying to take control of the jewel."

"I've done it before, fool. What's to stop me from doing it again?" Raistlin gritted his teeth in concentration. He hastily called the words of the spell to mind, trying desperately to remember the right inflection of each.

Shuffling footsteps sounded behind him, and soon the ancient wizard's fleshless hand rested upon Raistlin's shoulder. The smell of death and decay stung the young mage's nose. "I will stop you, Raistlin Majere," he hissed into his former host's ear. "For this time I am prepared. I knew you would come, just as your brother did. Your brother's foolish hopes weren't what was keeping me at bay. No, of course not. I wanted a chance to get my revenge…upon _you_."

"I'm touched," the young mage said dryly. Turning suddenly, Raistlin tackled the illusion of Fistandantilus. The ruby room seemed to constrict around them, as if they were rushing to try to save their master. Soon the chamber was no taller than a toddler, and no wider than a man's armspan.

"Wh…what are you doing!" Fistandantilus raged, his skeletal fingers digging painfully into the young mage's wrists.

"What I should have done the first time you confronted me with your fool deal," Raistlin cried. "I'm going back to the Abyss; and I'm taking you with me!" Curling his own porcelain fists around the ancient bones, he held on tight. The words of the spell were quite clear in his mind, and he spoke them without hesitation.

__

Dust to dust, as humans are

Servants of time we all remain

Wrinkles of age, our eternal scar

Which proves that every life shall wane.

A pact with the dead, a deal with the gods

Save the ones who fear the grave

But time itself creates staggering odds

Of once more becoming to time a slave.

Dust to dust, for dust exchanged

A life for a life, a soul for a soul

For aging itself cannot be arranged

Only postponed by another's death knoll.

To Takhisis I offer the heart of this man

In return I expect his youth to be mine

And now I accept that I am what I am

A servant, a slave to the passage of time.

The ruby walls shuddered. Fistandantilus glared up at Raistlin with utter hatred burning in his hollow eyes.

"You condemn yourself," he spat. Already his skin was crumbling away, his bones decaying before Raistlin's very eyes. "You fool!"

"You are the fool, Fistandantilus," Raistlin breathed, feeling his strength fading fast. "You allowed yourself to be ruled by another."

The skull laughed in dying derision. "I was ruled by no one but myself."

"No, you weren't. You were ruled…by time." Raistlin's hourglass eyes flashed in the crimson light. Fistandantilus let out a horrible shriek that was cut short as his body crumbled away to nothing. Raistlin collapsed where his enemy had fallen, feeling his soul being drawn back…back to the Abyss…

"You made me the Master of Past and Present, the one thing you longed to be but could not!" he roared into the blackness. "And thus…were you defeated." Then he sank into oblivion, his last conscious thought being that he hoped Takhisis enjoyed the age-ripened soul…then choked on it.


	8. To Love is to Wait a Lifetime

_(A/N: Not much to say here, but this chapter is dedicated to The Lady Crysania. Thank you so much for your dedication to my story. I hope I can live up to your expectations.)_

_Caramon! Caramon wake up! They're coming for me! Please, make them go away!"_

_"Shh, Raist! It's ok!"_

_"No no they're out there! They're waiting for me!"_

_"No one's out there, Raist. Here, I'll even go look for you."_

_"No, don't leave me!" Raistlin clung to his brother with an unbelievably strong grip. "Don't let them get me…"_

"It's ok, Raist…" Caramon mumbled, putting his arms around his brother. "They won't come for you. I'm here. Look--" He drowsily raised his hand and formed his fingers into what might have been a rabbit, had he been awake enough to hold his fingers straight. "—bunnies…"

Light filtered through his shut eyelids, and he winced. He tried to turn over and bury his face under the pillow, but he found that he couldn't move; there was a dead weight on top of him. He gave a sleepy chuckle, giving his brother's hand a squeeze and a pat.

"C'mon, Raist. I gotta turn over…if ya don't move…I'll squish you…" A huge, jaw cracking yawn split his face. "…like a bug…"

Then he remembered himself and where he was. Raistlin was dead. It was Tika who was seeking the comfort of his big arms, not his brother. Opening his eyes, he started to mentally slap himself for being so stupid.

He looked down.

Collapsed upon his chest in a tangle of black hair, was Raistlin. He looked different, but there was no doubt in his twin's mind that it was him. With a hoarse cry, Caramon pulled his unconscious brother into a tight but gentle embrace.

"Raistlin!"

"Did you hear that?" Tika said suddenly, looking up from her prayers.

"Hear what?" Tanis muttered. Blood still rushed in his ears, as he had tried numerous times, despite the protest of his companions, to penetrate the magical barrier.

"It sounded like…Caramon!" Tika stood up, her face shining with tears and hope in the waning firelight. The sun had sunk low upon the horizon, and it sleepily shone its fading light through the stained glass windows of the Inn. It had been hours since Raistlin had gone to his brother's side, and the group had been waiting in uneasy impatience.

"The barrier has been lowered," Riverwind reported. The tall warrior cautiously edged through the doorway, his dark eyes darting warily around. "We may proceed."

"Oh, thank Paladine!" Tika whispered. Brushing past Riverwind, she bolted down the hall to her husband's side.

"Yes," Crysania said softly, rising to her feet with somewhat less enthusiasm than her red-headed friend. "Thank Paladine." Two tears trickled down her cheeks, and she pressed a trembling hand over her eyes. "Oh, Raistlin," she said brokenly. "You knew it was me. Why didn't you tell me? Why did you keep me in the dark until it was too late…too late for me to tell you…"

The sound of a happy reunion drifted to her ears. Caramon's big booming voice was talking excitedly, but Crysania was too upset to comprehend what he was saying. Keeping her hand over her eyes, she turned to the fire. Only when a gentle hand was laid upon her arm did she look up, her eyes red with tears.

"Lady Crysania, please come with me." Goldmoon's voice twinkled "There's something I want to show you."

"Can it wait? Please…" She rubbed the cascading rivers from her cheeks. "I don't know if I'm up to a happy reunion just yet…"

"Oh, I think you are, Revered Daughter." Goldmoon's slender fingers curled around her elbow and pulled her gently toward the hallway. A radiant smile graced her lips. "Please, come with me."

Crysania heaved a great sigh, using her more effective robe sleeve to dry her eyes. "As you wish."

Goldmoon led Crysania down the dimly lit corridor and directed her into a room. Crysania heard Caramon try to struggle to his feet, grunting as if lifting a heavy load. Clasping her hands behind her back, the High Cleric of Paladine raised her sightless face with calm dignity. "I am happy to have you back, Caramon Majere," she said in a low voice. "Blessed Paladine has once again regarded you with favor."

"And you, milady," Caramon replied. She heard him shuffle forward. "Revered Daughter, might I ask you to hold out your arms? Well, you might wanna sit down first…"

Alarmed, Crysania took a step forward. "You aren't still hurt anywhere, are you, Caramon?" Her fingers moved to her medallion. "If so, of course I will--"

The others stifled a laugh, and Caramon's face broke into a broad grin. "No, my lady. I am not hurt. Please, do what I tell you."

"A…alright…" Crysania sank to the floor, arranging her soft white robes around her out of habit. Then, hesitantly, she held out her arms, feeling incredibly foolish. Her face burned red with embarrassment. "Caramon, I don't understand. What's going--"

She sensed Caramon kneeling beside her, and she stopped short as a warm, velvet robed figure was placed into her arms. The figure moaned, stirred within her startled embrace. Then, suddenly, she understood.

"Oh…Raistlin…" Tears formed once more behind her milky eyes. "You didn't leave me after all…" With a strangled cry, she pulled the mage close with a strength borne only of love. "Raistlin…Raistlin…" she said his name over and over, savoring it as it rolled across her tongue. Her slender hand tangled itself in his dark, dark hair as her lips kissed his porcelain forehead.

Caramon smiled, then backed up to give them space. He slipped over to Tika and put his arm around her, and she hugged him close, tears of joy forming a wet splotch on his shirt.

"I'm so happy you're back," she whispered, burying her nose in his shoulder.

"Raist saved me," he replied, resting his chin on her red curls. "It was Raistlin, Tika! He came…and he brought me back…"

"The first thing he's ever done right." She grinned up at him through her tears.

"N…not the _first_," he mumbled, his cheeks going as red as her hair. "There've been…other times…"

Tika laughed. "Of course, dear," she murmured, her emerald gaze shifting over to Crysania. "Of course."

Raistlin looked up at Crysania through bleary eyes. He tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. Wetting his lips, he tried again. "Wh…why am I here?" he asked hoarsely. Then, as if he had just discovered the meaning of what he just said, he pushed himself back from her as if she had been a poisonous snake. "Why am I still here!"

The fragile good mood was shattered by the sudden outburst. Dark glances were passed all around as Crysania's brow furrowed worriedly. "W-what do you mean?" she stammered, knowing full well what he meant but not wanting it to be true.

"I was supposed to be gone, the moment I saved Caramon!" Raistlin shrieked, scrambling back a little further. His unnaturally green eyes were wide. "Why do I remain! My brother is restored! This cannot be!"

"I…I don't know!" Crysania held her hands out to him helplessly. "Please, Raistlin--"

"No!" The mage clutched his head in his hands. "Something went wrong. I am not supposed to be here! My work here is finished!" Finding himself backed against a wall, Raistlin hunched his shoulders and stared at Crysania, who had let her hands fall limply to her sides.

"Raist…I mean, Raistlin…" Caramon took a tentative step toward his brother. "Perhaps this means you were not only supposed to save me…but for some reason, you still had another attachment to us. Maybe you were supposed to remain here…to make up for lost time."

Raistlin shot his brother a disgusted look from the depths of his black hood. "I lost no time by not being here, my dear brother," he sneered, lip curling. He shook his cowled head. "No. There must be another reason." He drew a deep breath, trying to clear his head of the blinding rage and fear.

Pursing his lips, Caramon looked back at Tika. His wife was biting the knuckle of her left index finger, her eyes glittering with undisguised contempt. Seeing his helpless glance, Tika made a face and turned away. Caramon sighed and turned his gaze back to his brother.

"So let me get this straight." Tanis strode across the room and squatted down beside the bedraggled mage. His almond eyes shone fiercely in the firelight. "You say you were supposed to be gone, but for some reason you're still here. How were you able to come back in the first place?"

"I take it you did not miss me much, Half-Elf."

"It's hard to miss someone who tried to become a god," Tanis shot back.

Raistlin chuckled malevolently. "I suppose not. In any case, does it matter how I returned to this miserable world? The only matter of true importance is that I am here, however misfortunate the occurrence might be. To you and me both," he added, his lips forming a thin, bitter smile.

Laurana now stepped forward, placing a calming hand on her husband's shoulder. "Then shouldn't you work on getting your unfinished business over and done with?"

"If only it were that easy, Lauranalanthalasa." Having somewhat regained his composure, Raistlin pushed himself to his feet, tucking his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his robes. The green eyes glimmered dangerously, and all but Crysania took an involuntary step back. "First, I must actually discover what it is I am meant to accomplish, then I will have to actually _do_ it. And considering the kind of life I led, it does not bode to be an easy task."

"I wonder whose fault that would be?" Tika muttered.

"Mine, of course, woman," Raistlin returned. "And now that we have established the obvious, we can now move on to more pressing matters. First of all, if you would all leave, I would like some time to myself. There is much I need to consider."

"We will not leave you alone to plot more of your evil," Riverwind said quietly. His arm tightened its hold on his wife. Their children, who had been asleep in the common room until a few minutes ago, were clinging to their parents legs, their eyes wide.

Raistlin opened his mouth to let fly a vile remark; but Crysania spoke first, making everyone, including the mage, jump in surprise. "We will leave him be," she murmured. Slowly she stood, her hands clasped in front of her. "He will plot no further evil. Of this we can be sure."

"I don't see how you can say that with such conviction, Revered Daughter," Tanis said, still fixing the wizard with a penetrating stare. "We all know what evil acts he's capable of committing."

"And we all know that he is capable of doing good as well. Come, we will leave him alone. For now, let us trust him. Perhaps that is all he ever really wanted."

"You are a foolish woman," Raistlin snarled, but with only half-hearted conviction. Crysania merely smiled and held out her hand to be led from the room. Goldmoon gently pulled away from Riverwind and took the cleric's slender hand, and, placing it upon her arm, began to lead her from the room. The others filed out ahead of them, each casting their own meaningful look at the mage who stood by the wall.

"Be careful, Raist," Caramon murmured. "And…thanks."

"Don't be stupid, my brother," Raistlin grated. "I did this only out of necessity."

His twin sighed. "Yeah yeah, I know. Whatever you say, Raist." He turned to go. Reaching the threshold, he stopped and looked back. Unwitting tears tickled his eyes as he regarded his brother's thin, pale form with sympathy.

Raistlin caught the look and made a face. "What?" he demanded.

After a moment's hesitation, Caramon quickly crossed the room and pulled his brother into a gentle embrace. Raistlin stiffened, but Caramon still held on. A tear escaped from his eye and fell into Raistlin's soft, black hair.

"Raist…" the warrior choked, blinking back another hapless drop. "I…it's good to see you again. And…I know that you didn't sacrifice yourself for me or anyone else…but…I'm glad. I'm glad you did the right thing, even if it was for the wrong reasons."

"You are a sentimental fool, my brother," Raistlin said softly. Though his hands remained limp at his sides, the wizard allowed his dark head to rest briefly against his brother's broad shoulder. He drew a shaky breath. "Nothing but a sentimental fool."

Feeling his brother's weak attempt at a hug, Caramon grinned through his tears. "Maybe I _am_ a sentimental fool. But Raist…" He pulled back, his big hands resting on his twin's slender arms. "Take care of yourself."

"My brother, I am dead. I hardly think it matters."

"Well…you never know what the future may hold. Maybe, like I said before, you're still here because you need to be with us for a while." Caramon was loathe to let go of his brother, but Raistlin took a step back, his eyes once more mirrors that showed no emotion.

"Don't get your hopes up. Leave me now."

Caramon nodded numbly and turned to go. But his brother's soft voice stopped him as he reached the door.

"Caramon…" Raistlin ventured, his pale cheeks somewhat flushed in the flickering light. "I would ask you to send for Lady Crysania."

The big man broke into a smile. "Sure, Raist. I'll send her in." Then he walked out, headed for the common room.

Raistlin sauntered over to the fire. Sinking down into one of the wicker chairs arranged by the hearth, he put his head in his hands. A wry smile touched his lips. "Now who is the sentimental fool?" he asked the flames. "Tell me. Who is it now?"

A few minutes later, Crysania padded silently into the room. Her milky eyes instinctively flicked around the chamber, and her breath came in short, excited puffs. "Raistlin?" she called softly.

"I am here." Raistlin looked up from dancing blaze and let his gaze rest upon her, trying to take in every detail at once. Rising, he took a step toward her.

Crysania twisted her robes between nervous hands. "I…I'm happy you called for me. Where are you exactly? Forgive me, I cannot see…"

"It is I who should be asking _your_ forgiveness." Raistlin wet his lips, the words uncomfortable upon his rough tongue. "For your blindness is no one's fault but my own."

Walking toward his voice, Crysania held out a searching hand. "I followed you of my own accord, Raistlin. I knew you would betray me, I just could not bring my heart to believe my mind."

Raistlin stopped. "Then why do you still come to me?" he demanded suddenly, his anger washing over her like a tidal wave. "After all I have done, you have every right to hate me! Why do you still--"

"Love you?" she finished for him. "Because love is blind." Her outstretched hand found his face, and her smooth fingers ran themselves over the delicate features. She felt him shiver under her touch and begin to pull away. Quickly she reached out her other hand and slipped it around his waist, resting her head against his velvet robed chest. "You owe me a great debt, Raistlin Majere," she whispered, letting the hand that had been caressing his face fall around his shoulders. "And I ask you to repay it now. All I want…is your embrace. Please, it will be more than enough."

"Oh…gods…" the mage breathed, feeling an impossible wave of desire well up from the depths of his soul. His hands involuntarily encircled her slender form. A shiver of delight traveled up his spine as she nestled closer; he could feel every curve, every inch of her body as it pressed against his.

Crysania lifted her sightless face and smiled dreamily. "Raistlin, I love you…" Leaning forward, her soft lips found his. Raistlin leaned forward hungrily, allowing his own lips to part in ecstasy. Crysania lapped gently at his mouth, letting the kiss grow deeper and deeper, stoking the fire that was growing within them both. Before they knew it, they had collapsed onto the floor, hopelessly entwined in each other's arms. Raistlin felt her hips dig into his as she pulled herself as close as possible, and he let out a groan of pleasure.

"Raistlin…" Crysania breathed, kissing along his jawline and down his neck.

He swallowed hard, his head tilting back in a tangle of black, glossy hair. Whether it was his or Crysania's, he couldn't be sure, but for the moment it seemed as if they were one and the same. His mind reeled, and the world spun before his eyes. "Yes…" he replied huskily, tilting her head back in turn so he could do the same to her. His fevered lips rained kisses around her collarbone, and his hands held tightly to her waist. "Yes, Crysania…"

"I want…your love…" she whispered, resting her chin upon his masses of black locks, her eyes closed. "Love me, Raistlin…that's all I ask…" Her slender arms gently encircled his neck, cradling his head against her breast. "Stay with me forever…"

Raistlin opened his mouth to tell her that he would do as she asked. He drew a breath and formed his lips to the words. He cracked his eyelids a slit so he could look into her beautiful face…

The medallion of Paladine glowed brightly upon her breast, searing his eyes with a brilliant light. With a howl of pain and self disgust, Raistlin shoved her away and clambered backwards, his hands pressed over his throbbing eyes.

"What!" Crysania lunged forward, desperately feeling around for him. "Raistlin, what's wrong!"

"Th…the medallion!" the mage hissed, letting his fingers slip down ever so slightly so he could fix her with a furious glare. "You witch! You are using the medallion of Paladine against me! You are trying to purge me, aren't you!"

"N-no!" Crysania's searching hand found the edge of Raistlin's robe and clutched at it feverishly. Drawing herself closer, she hastily tried to stuff the medallion down the front of her robes. "Raistlin, I did nothing of the sort! You have to believe me!"

"Do I?" he asked bitterly, snatching his cloak away from her. "Do I, Crysania? No one has ever told me the truth. Why should I think you would be the first, you lying wretch!"

"Raistlin--!"

"No!" the mage shrieked. "Get away! Get out of my sight!"

In desperation, Crysania tore at the medallion. "Raistlin, look at me! I will get rid of it! Burn it, if I have to! All I want is you! I don't care if I burn forever in the bowels of the Abyss, I just want to be with you!"

Raistlin snorted. "Easier said than done, my _dear._ You may say that now, when the fires of lust burn bright within your heart; but we'll see how it goes when you are prostrated before your god and he turns his face away! You will deny you ever knew my name!"

Tears flowed unchecked down Crysania's cheeks. Again she tugged at the medallion, but this time only half-heartedly. Eventually her hand ceased its futile task and moved to cover her eyes. Sobs wracked her entire body as she cried tears that came from her very soul.

Raistlin turned away, letting a curtain of dark hair fall before his eyes. The reflection of the blinding, painful light still cast seething shadows across the back of his eyelids. The sound of his heart in his ears drowned out all else; all but Crysania's anguished cries. Silently he cursed himself for falling once more into the trap that should have been so easy to avoid, and yet ensnared him time and time again.

"Raistlin Majere. The Sly One. How well you live up to your name."

The room burst into brilliant light – the same light that had near blinded him not moments before. Raistlin narrowed his eyes and tried to look into the heart of the shimmering aura, only to find himself repulsed and forced to look away.

"You needn't look. You already know who I am."

Raistlin's lip curled even as he ducked his head away from the light. "Indeed, I do know who you are. None but you would stop time to aid one of your servants."

Paladine smiled slightly, his radiant face stern but understanding. The god moved silently behind Crysania, pulling his beloved cleric into a fatherly embrace. Frozen in time, Crysania did not respond. Paladine gently brushed away her tears, his flowing golden hair wafting against her face like a graceful spiderweb floating on a spring breeze. Then he looked up at the mage who was huddled against the wall, the frozen firelight shimmering on his dark hair. "You know," the god said with mock amiability, "black hair suits you better. It goes well with your soul."

"Why thank you," Raistlin returned dryly, "I'll be sure to keep that in mind. Now tell me; what did you _really_ come here to do? Surely wiping a few tears and commenting on my appearance didn't bring you here from your immortal plane."

"I came to tell you that I am aware of your little scheme." Kissing Crysania's black locks, Paladine moved away from her to stand in front of Raistlin. The mage could sense the god's power, and he felt his soul throw up its hands in worship and surrender. Stubbornly he held his ground, allowing his head only a slight bow of reverence.

"I am flattered that you would take an interest in plans such as mine. However, it seems you have come a bit late. Fistandantilus has been destroyed, and I will soon return to the Abyss to report to my lord Nuitari."

"Ah, that is where you are wrong, my dear Black Robe. You know as well as I that you are still here for a reason." Paladine reached out and pulled back the curtain of black hair that covered the wizard's face. With a finger that burned to the touch, he roughly made Raistlin look him in the face. "That is what brings me here. I am going to impart to you the second half of your duty here on Krynn. You must know that there are two parts to what you will have to accomplish. One to the world…and one to your own heart."

Raistlin blinked, trying to rid himself of the tears that formed at the god's brilliance. His eyes burned terribly in the searing light. "Do tell, Great One," he grated, a sarcastic edge sounding in his voice, "what is this miraculous task I am supposed to undertake?"

Paladine hesitated. The flawless brow furrowed as if he could not bear to relate what needed to be done. Then, with a hollow, heartfelt sigh, he began to speak.

"There is a girl that serves in my temple," the god said at last. "Her name is Senan. I believe you know of her."

"Yes. What of her?" The god's roundabout way of speaking was beginning to get on Raistlin's nerves. Silently he asked Nuitari for patience as he fought the urge to pull away from the loathsome touch.

"Over the years, Senan has lost her ability to communicate with me," Paladine went on, oblivious to or not caring about the mage's inner struggle. "In her faithlessness, she has begun to hear instead the voice of my sister. Through her, Takhisis has kept careful watch on the happenings of Krynn. And now, through the unwitting cooperation of her son, she has found a way to reenter the world at last."

Raistlin snorted. "What has this to do with me? I will be gone from this world soon enough."

"No, you will not. It is your fault Takhisis received this chance at all, and thus you will be forced to make reparations for the problem."

"And just how is this my fault?" the wizard demanded angrily, pulling away at last. "I have had nothing to do with the foolish girl, aside from exchanging a few sharp words."

"Those 'few sharp words' have cost her her heart," Paladine said quietly. His glimmering eyes flicked briefly across the motionless Crysania, and his lips pressed themselves into a thin line. Turning back to Raistlin, the god folded his arms in front of him and continued on. "She has fallen in love with you, and she will do anything – even sacrifice Crysania's soul to the Dark Queen – to win your affections."

Raistlin stared at the deity, his jaw going momentarily slack.

Paladine gave a rueful smile. "Yes, my dear Raistlin Majere, you've done it again."

After a few moments in stunned silence, Raistlin let his head fall back against the wall with a thunk. Silent laughter convulsed his thin frame.

The god was surprised, then angry. "What in the Abyss is so funny?" he roared.

"Funny you should mention the Abyss," Raistlin gasped through his mirth. His green eyes glittered mockingly. "For that seems to be where all your clerics are headed. I've done it again, have I? Bah! I've done nothing. It is no fault of mine that they are fools."

"Nevertheless, because of you, the Dark Queen has found her entrance into the world. And my clerics are not fools. They are merely overly trusting, too loving for their own good. Which brings me to the second duty – the one you owe to your own heart…and Crysania's."

Raistlin's laughter died. Drawing himself up, the magic user found himself leaning forward. "Well?"

"Stand, and I shall tell you. There can be no mistake." Paladine waited until the mage had hefted himself to his feet before leaning forward to whisper into his ear.

Raistlin's eyes went wide. "What!" Stumbling back, he gave the god an astonished, almost terrified look. "N…no! I cannot!"

"Would that it weren't true, Majere," Paladine said tiredly. "Believe me, if there was any other way, I would gladly have taken it. But there are some things even gods cannot control. Go; take her in your arms. You will have very few chances before the Dark Queen makes her appearance, and it is vital that you complete your task within that time."

"I don't see how it's 'vital'," Raistlin snarled, standing rigid. "Besides, it will take much longer for the--"

"Trust me," the deity interrupted. "I think I know what I am talking about. Now I must bid you farewell; there is much to be done on the immortal plane that cannot wait any longer. I must confront Nuitari and his cousins – you will need the magical assistance of all three if you are to defeat Takhisis." With one last nod, Paladine disappeared in a flash of light.

Time started up again. The fire crackled loudly once more. The wind rushed through the leaves of the vallenwood, singing a soft, lulling melody to the stars. Raistlin could hear Crysania crying…crying softly…

"Crysania." Crossing the few feet of floorspace between them, he knelt down beside her. With a trembling hand, he pushed her hair behind her shoulder, and, leaning forward, gently kissed her bare neck. "F…forgive me. I was…angry…that the medallion should hurt me so. I needed someone to blame…someone other than…Paladine." He spat the name from between gritted teeth. In his mind, he was cursing the god in numerous colorful ways.

Crysania turned her tear-stained face to him and formed a small smile. "Paladine was here, was he not?" she asked softly, brushing the back of her hand across her eyes. A hiccup shook her body as she tried to quell her tears.

Again the wizard cursed the deity, this time with more vehemence. "Y—yes."

"And he told you what your final task was."

"Yes." How could she know? Could she have heard?

"Raistlin, I know what you have to do," she whispered, clinging to his arms. Her sightless eyes were wide with excitement. "Please, believe me when I say that I will accept with all my heart and soul."

"Damn you, Paladine," Raistlin muttered.

Crysania blinked. "What?"

"Never mind." The wizard drew a deep breath.

The cleric leaned closer. "Raistlin…you _will_ do what Paladine says, won't you?" A shadow of what could have been fear fell across her pearly features. "Won't you?" she pressed.

"Perhaps," he said vaguely, training his eyes on the door, hoping that someone would conveniently interrupt their disturbing conversation.

"You can't deny the will of a god, Raistlin!" Crysania almost shouted in exasperation. "Think of it as repaying the debt you owe to me."

"I thought I did that when I held you earlier," he returned sardonically. "I seem to remember you saying something of similar nature."

Crysania shook her head incredulously. "You're impossible. However, I, for one, intend to carry out my god's wishes, whether you want to or not. Paladine must have had good reason for bestowing this task upon you, and I will not let his mission fail, no matter how much of a conniving fool you are." Leaning forward suddenly, she kissed him hard, her hand finding his and bringing it up to rest upon her full, round breast. Raistlin pulled away, a mocking smile touching his lips.

"Are you really doing this for your god, Revered Daughter?" he hissed. "Or are you doing this for yourself?"

"F…for my god, of course!" she stammered, her face flushing a faint pink. Then, a look of determination settling into her eyes, she met his gaze with unwavering resolve. "True, I have loved you for a long time. But the fact remains that you used me to further your own ends, and when it came down to the wire, you left me to die. These are actions that are hard to forgive, if you take my meaning." She drew a deep, shuddering breath. "But, as I have been reminded countless times over the last few weeks by my own aching heart, lovers are just fools with a fancy name. And thus, I remain, my dear Raistlin. Thus I remain."

The sardonic smile slipped from Raistlin's face and turned into a gaze of wonder and grudging respect. Was this truly the same woman that had thrown herself blindly at his feet not a month ago?

"I see you have grown in more than your faith, Revered Daughter," he said softly, drawing his hands into the velvet sleeves of his robes. "You no longer play the part of the desperate harlot." Upon saying this, he watched her face intently. She did not show any emotion; and whether that was borne of blindness or strength of heart, it was hard to tell. Crysania remained silent. Raistlin bit his lip contemptuously – he did not enjoy this gentle rebuke. "Well?" he demanded at last. "Are you just going to sit there and do nothing? Whatever became of your precious god's will?"

"Your words are like cherry blossoms floating on the wind," she murmured, her milky gaze turning eerily upon the mage. "They flow in raging torrents with the gales, but in the end, all they can do is lodge themselves in my hair long enough to be brushed away." She touched his face with a steady hand, tracing the porcelain features with a slender finger. Her fingertips found his mouth, which was pressed into a firm line tinged with bitterness. "Only when you learn to speak with more than words will anyone truly listen." Then, leaning forward, she tenderly kissed his thin lips. When she backed up and stood to leave, her face glowed with the same godly radiance that had surrounded Paladine. The resemblance was unsettling.

"I will be waiting for you. In time you will come to your senses. When that day comes, you can come to me." Trailing a finger along the wooden wall, she walked slowly out of the room.


End file.
